


Morgensonne

by MaggieFromTexas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, True Blood (TV)
Genre: Ancient Runes, BAMF Harry Potter, Battle Magic, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry Potter is the Heir to the House of Black, Keeping the Relationship Secret for Now, M/M, Mages, Master of Death Harry Potter, Multi, Necromancy, OOC, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Sirius Black Lives, Spy Harry Potter, Unspeakable Harry Potter, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21931705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieFromTexas/pseuds/MaggieFromTexas
Summary: Leaving Britain after more than a decade of life in the spotlight for northern Louisiana, Morgan Potter-Black meets our favorite Sheriff & chaos quickly ensues.
Comments: 34
Kudos: 313





	1. THE MAGE AND THE VAMPIRES

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries in any way. If I did, I sure as heck wouldn’t be writing fanfiction, lol. The characters in this story belong to their respective authors and creators. This is their sandbox – I’m just playing in it. 
> 
> Author’s Note: After reading fanfiction on this site for about five years, I finally decided to write my own. There’s no outline for the story, but I have a general idea of where I’d like to go. I got inspired by a lack of HP/TB cross over work. There are some really great stories out there. Royal Ember’s An Ancient’s Love and In the Shadow of the Oak are some of my favorite True Blood fan fiction and I draw a lot of inspiration from their work. The Historical Importance of Runic War Warding in the British Isles by samvelg is also another favorite of mine that inspired this story. Please check those stories out, even if Royal Ember hasn’t updated in a while, the unfinished stories are still some of the best fanfic I’ve ever read. I don’t have a beta, so there will undoubtedly be grammar errors – go easy on me if you review ;) it’s been a while since I was in an English class. Enjoy & leave reviews :) This story is cross-posted under the same username at FFN
> 
> Edited on 12/31/19

**CHAPTER ONE: THE MAGE AND THE VAMPIRES**

**Morgan POV**

Morgan cursed as she glanced at the time on her phone. She was going to be late if she didn’t leave her house now. She grabbed her black leather jacket and made her way to the door, stopping by the mirror in the entrance hall of her home to do a last-minute check of her appearance. The mirror’s reflection showed her disguised face – thanks to her Black ancestry, she was a Metamorphmagus. Bright red hair and her father’s grey eyes – Black eyes – stared out of a more rounded, but familiar face. She was not taking any chances of revealing her identity after going through so much trouble to hide her presence in this area for the last few months. Moving her eyes past her face, she checked her black body-suite style romper in comfortable cotton-silk blend cinched with a green belt and the dark green heels on her feet. Satisfied that she looked appropriate for a meeting with the local vampire authority that also sufficiently hid her true identity, she pulled on her jacket, grabbed her purse and headed for her car.

Swiftly changing gears while entering the highway, she thought about the upcoming meeting. She had, technically speaking, broken protocol by living in this area for months before contacting the vampire authority in the area to let him know about her residence in the area. Morgan really hoped that the fact that a witch was now inhabiting Area 5 had flown under the radar of Eric Northman. She wasn’t truly worried – she was a highly skilled witch – not like those hedge-witches that vampires normally dealt with. Technically she was a mage, but like hell was she divulging any information that wasn’t need-to-know to the supernatural community. The only reason she made an appointment to inform the Sheriff was to actually blend in, in the case that her residing in the area became known. Better to take care of these problems now than explain after the fact to an irate Sheriff that she had essentially been squatting in his backyard when – not if – her thrice-cursed-damn Potter Luck decided to make an appearance.

Thankfully getting the audience with Mr. Northman didn’t require her to jump through hoops of bureaucratic nonsense like she had feared may be the case. She just requested a meeting through his bar’s – Fangtasia, really? – website and the following evening a female, who introduced herself as Pam, with the heaviest southern accent she had ever heard called to confirm the time and date with her. That was two days ago and now she was headed to the most absurd bar she had ever heard of. Thankfully the bar was not open to the public today – she guessed that Mr. Northman took care of his Area business and took all appointments on these nights. Morgan was ready to get this meeting over with so that she didn’t have to have any further dealings with society for a month – minimum. She was an introvert – sue her.

Surprised to find herself already nearing the exit for the street the bar was located on, she focused on her driving and soon found herself pulling into the parking lot of a typical bar/club combination. Double checking that her always-present weapons were indeed present and unobtrusive in the full-length romper she wore, she grabbed her purse, locked her car, and made her way to the front door of the establishment. She immediately made note of the eleven vampires and two humans inside of the bar during her cursory glance around the building. Morgan noted who had to be Mr. Northman located at the end of the building sitting – was he seriously sitting in a throne? – and having a conversation that was just under a human’s hearing range with a female blonde vampire standing just to the side of his seat.

There seemed to be a bit of a queue to speak with the Sheriff, so she quietly made her way to the end of it and listened to what she could of the conversations of the vampires in front of her. Vampires always tended to be a bit arrogant in her opinion – they mixed so much with the non-magicals that they often failed to remember that there were supernatural beings that for all intents-and purposes looked and smelled quite human. The vampires around her promptly took note of the heartbeat they could hear from her, lowered their voices to a range that would be too low for most humans to hear them, and then promptly started talking about her. Inwardly, she rolled her eyes but kept an outward mien of polite disinterest of those around her. The only vampires that didn’t follow this pattern were the two blondes at the back of the building. Mr. Northman and the now identified Pam stopped their conversation and glanced at her before resuming their talk.

The next twenty minutes passed by slowly as each vampire had their audience with the Sheriff. Mentally, Morgan was rolling her eyes at the inane things these vampires brought to the Sheriff’s attention – an attitude shared by Mr. Northman if his increasingly short replies were anything to go off of. After they were done with their conversation with Mr. Northman, most of the vampires left the bar, but a few meandered over to the bar to order a True Blood and continue their earlier conversations. Finally, the last vampire before her finished their conversation and it was her turn at last.

Morgan’s internal derisive commentary about the vampires and wishes to go home already came to a halt as she finally made eye contact with Eric Northman. When her eyes met his ice blue ones, her magic, which she always kept tightly wrapped around her to fly under the radar more efficiently as it made people uncomfortable, stopped for lack of a better word. Morgan had never felt anything like this happen in any of the life threatening situations she had been in, so she relaxed from the immediate tense stance that she had taken – not that anyone noticed she was tense to begin with – she was trained better than to give anything away via body language, even to undead eyes. She broke eye contact with the large blonde and moved her gaze to the smaller blonde female vampire who looked at her with interest.

Morgan suddenly had the desire to start rethinking her entire approach to tonight’s meeting and the information – her magic practically electrocuted her when she thought about her original plan. She had no idea why her magic chose now to exert its will, but she wasn’t going to ignore it – her magic had saved her too many times for her to ever ignore it or take it for granted.

The blond vampire suddenly started speaking, breaking her out of planning out the repercussions of just what exactly she was about to do. Giving her the most thorough once-over she had ever had the displeasure of being subjected to, he spoke in a quiet, deep voice, with the barest hint of an accent, “Good evening, my name is Eric Northman and I am the Sheriff of Area Five and this is my progeny, Pamela. You’re obviously not a vampire, so the question is, why have you requested an audience with me tonight, Ms. James?”

Mentally rolling her eyes, Morgan hazarded a guess that he was also a little unnerved from their impromptu stare off and his attitude was a mixture of his normal one with a little bit extra sass mixed in to both compensate for being surprised and throw her further off balance – which, if she was a normal human and not a witch highly trained by both magical and mundane government agencies, she probably would be. Giving herself a few seconds to gauge the mood of the room, she internally sighed and decided to just get it over with – let the dice fall where they may. “Hello Mr. Northman and Ms. Pamela. I formally request guest protection rites and an oath of confidentiality.”

Both blondes in front of her dropped their masks of polite disinterest and looked her over with new eyes while the noise in the rest of the room abruptly ceased. Feeling the eyes of the room on her, all Morgan could do was hope to every deity there was that the scene she just caused wouldn’t make it back to the supernatural community in England. Knowing her luck, it would, and she could expect a Floo call by tomorrow evening at the latest. Tom was going to absolutely fucking kill her.

**Eric POV**

Sitting here week after week listening to the petty problems of the vampires that resided in his area was grating on his very last nerve. As a vampire with over a millennium of life behind him, it was rare for him to feel anything other than annoyance or the occasional bought of lust during a feed and fuck. Making derogatory comments about his residents to his progeny in Old Swedish was the only real relief he got from the monotony of nights like these. The human woman who had was next in line was quite beautiful though. If this were any other night and she came into his club, he would have already been planning on taking her back to his office in order to satisfy his more carnal urges. However, on these nights, he limited himself to Area business only unfortunately.

When she stepped up after the vampire in front of her was done with their business, he finally got a good look at her face when she turned toward him. Meeting her eyes, he felt a rush of something unidentifiable go through him, stilling him. Eric was thrown off balance – a feat in and of itself due to his long life. He did not appreciate it. The redhead in front of him was the first to break their stare off, moving her eyes over to Pamela. He decided to unnerve the human, a Ms. James if he remembered the name on his appointment docket correctly, just a little bit in a fit of pique. After giving her a good look from her fire engine red hair to her green heeled feet, he finally broke the silence, “Good evening, my name is Eric Northman and I am the Sheriff of Area Five and this is my progeny, Pamela. You’re obviously not a vampire, so the question is, why have you requested an audience with me tonight, Ms. James?”

She looked decidedly unimpressed, her heartbeat showing that she was truly unaffected the stare that had most humans at least blushing if not outright sputtering. Ms. James glanced around the bar out of the corner of her eye for a second before meeting his stare again and thoroughly shocking him with what came out of her mouth next. In a distinct upper-class English accent with hints of – was that Scottish brogue? how odd – she said, “Hello Mr. Northman and Ms. Pam. I formally requesting guest protection rites and an Oath of Confidentiality.”

Well, now he was sure that the next few minutes would definitely not be boring at all. He exchanged a quick, knowing glance with his progeny. Pamela had only heard the formal invocation of guest rites a few times, and all of those times were over a century ago and still while they were living in England immediately after her turning. He gave her a small nod toward the bar to signal that she should clear out the now gawking and silent onlookers so that he could make some headway to unraveling this mystery that had walked into his bar. While possible for a normal human to invoke guest rites, it was highly unlikely that they would know about them in the first place. So, the redhead was a supernatural of some sort. Taking a discreet sniff of the air, he ruled out Were and full shifter and got a little tense at what that left – witch. A look to his progeny sent her to the bar to get drinks – wine for Ms. James and a True Blood for them – along with some bread in order to complete the rites she invoked. Eric then got up off of his throne and went to grab a small end table for the ceremony. After everything was sat down, he picked up the wine glass and bread, offering them to Ms. James. He invoked with a formal air, “Take part of the wine and bread of my home and be safe in my company for this night.”

Ms. James took a sip of the wine and a bite of the bread while Eric and Pam took a drink of their disgusting True Bloods. A small gust of wind blew his hair back, signifying their magic’s acceptance of the rite and the consequences that should befall them if either party broke the rite. After the formality was finished, Ms. James further shocked Eric by asking to set up a privacy ward in order to prevent any outsiders or technology from capturing what would she was about to say. Intrigued against his better judgement, he gave his assent. Pam looked at him like he had just declared he loved the vermin that came to the club for allowing a witch to do magic in his club. He knew it wasn’t the best idea, but his instincts didn’t have anything against it, so he didn’t feel like it was a danger. He was shocked for the third time that night when he felt the almost visible wave of magic pass through him to create a barrier just outside of their little group – she had set up an incredibly powerful piece of magic without any kind of external focus, like a wand, that most magicals were partial to. Feeling magic was something that a vampire attained with age like many vampiric gifts or traits, but that was still the single most magical thing he had ever felt in his 1000-plus-years of life. He gazed at Ms. James with an intense look of scrutiny on his face, trying to understand just who this little witch was.

“I apologize for the subterfuge, but once you know who I am, I hope you will understand why I did not give my true name over the phone. However, before I reveal my identity, I would appreciate that Oath. It would just need to state that you will not divulge my identity to a third party, living or dead.” Ms. James said after a minute of silence.

Eric took a fraction of a second to answer, “I will grant you your Oath if you don’t mind adding in a qualifier that prevents us from facing the consequences of breaking the Oath if your identity puts our lives in danger.” Living a millennium tends to condition one to cover all of their bases and leave allowances for hypothetical eventualities.

Ms. James immediately agreed and started the words of the Oath. “Do you Eric Northman, Sheriff of Area Five and you Pamela, progeny of Eric Northman, vow to keep my true identity a secret from all, living or dead, unless the knowledge of my true self puts you at serious and imminent risk of the True Death?”

Clever, he thought. Adding in their occupations so even if their names were not their true ones, the Oath would still bind them as tightly as possible without their true names. The qualifiers for the condition of the Oath were a nice touch too. A human who wasn’t oblivious to their nature, a nice surprise. “I do so swear,” both he and his progeny intoned, once again feeling a breeze signifying magic’s acceptance of their Oath.

As soon as they said the words, Ms. James appearance started to change. One minute he was looking at a woman of average build and height with red hair and grey eyes, pretty but not necessarily eye catching. Her face got sharper, cheek bones gaining prominence and height as her face thinned out. Her hair went from a bright, vivid red to the color of ink, staying the same length, more than halfway down her back in wild waves and curls that looked windswept and perpetually messy. Her eyes were the most startling change. From a handsome, but normal, grey, they were now an electric green. They were dark and light at the same time, caught between an emerald and neon green and they _glowed_. She had gained about four inches in height, standing at almost six feet tall with those green heels of hers, making her body look thinner but still retaining her curves on her chest and legs. After staring at her in quiet shock for a few seconds, he inhaled to question her about her need for this level of cloak-and-dagger when he nearly choked on her scent. Power – it was like smelling lighting strike right in front of him, all ozone and heavy atmosphere with an underlying scent of ash and blood. She smelled like power and death. Completely stunned at her scent, he was shocked when Pam suddenly started talking after what must have been a few moments too long without him noticing or saying anything.

With her usual affected Southern twang and sass, Pam glared at the witch and enquired, “So, we have a witch in disguise in a vampire bar. However, I’ve never seen a witch with the ability to shapeshift or cast wards like that without a wand. You will tell us now who you are and what you hoped to accomplish by coming here tonight.” Inwardly, Eric winced a little. He knew this witch, if that was what she truly was, was powerful and might not take kindly to his progeny’s sassing her. He sent a sharp jab through the bond to his progeny, not-so-subtly letting her know to tread carefully. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and the corner of her mouth ticked down when she must have registered the seriousness of the situation after taking in his expression.

Giving another one of her unimpressed stares, this time directed at Pam, she said, “I am a mage, not a witch like the magicals you have most likely dealt with in the past. My true name is Morgan James Potter-Black, or one of them anyways, and I am here to announce my presence in Mr. Northman’s area. I recently moved here and have already registered with the regional branch of the American Magical government. However, I am listed under the alias, James, with them, as you can imagine I would l would like to be able to live in relative peace, and that wouldn’t be possible if the masses could easily access my address.”

Eric was silent as he thought over the raven headed witch’s – mage’s – reply and tried to digest everything that was just thrown at him. Mage – he hasn’t heard that term in a few centuries. Mages shared as much similarity to witches and as vampires did to humans. They might look the same, with only few differences, like glowing eyes or a scent that reflects their power, but their biological make up is different. Most people did not realize that vampires were inherently magical creatures. They were animated through magic and could do some simple magic even if they were non-magical before their turning. However, blood magic is a vampire’s forte. Usually a vampire had to be over 1000 years old before they could start adequately practicing the art and Eric had watched his Maker explore the art as he started to delve deeply in it. Mages and vampires shared a common trait – they were beings made of magic. Witches and wizards had a magical core – an area in their body, some even theorize that it is the soul itself, that is the source of magic for a witch or wizard. The key difference here is that is possible to separate a witch or wizard from their magic – via binding or draining it from them via spells of a dubious nature. Mages lived and breathed magic, shedding it like one does hair or skin cells.

Nobody knew what exactly bred a mage. There are no observable traits that can predict them. Most people think that its Magic’s way of rebalancing the world - or they are born during a time of great strife and marked by fate to have a hand in it. Mages didn’t need a focus to perform magic – which explained the lack of wand – and were highly sought after when ever one was alive for both moral and immoral reasons. Mages could ward entire cities or slay a dragon. They were also the source of some of the best tasting blood in the world for the species that had a taste for it. Then there was the subject of her identity. Morgan Potter-Black, with a million other names: Girl-Who-Lived as a child, Woman-Who-Won as an adult, Lady Potter-Black in the Magical Peerage system of England. Eric had made it a point to stay up to date in the news of the various supernatural communities of Europe, so of course he had heard some of the speculation about the upheaval that the Magical Community of Britain went through starting little more than a decade ago. All of that change was centered upon a handful of people – with the mage in front of him seeming to lead the charge. He could indeed see why she registered with her government under an alias. It also gave him a good idea why she had seemingly moved to the middle of bum-fuck-Louisiana. She was either running away, taking a break, or retiring from the spotlight. She didn’t seem the type to run from her problems just from the few minutes he had spent in her company, so he would place his bets on the last two options. He also noticed that Morgan didn’t address her shape-shifting or that the she apparently had more legal names than she listed. A mystery to unravel – thank the gods, he was getting dreadfully bored here.

Finally, after a few moments of silence, Eric states, “While I can certainly see why you registered under an alias for the Magical government, what I don’t understand is why you came here and divulged your true identity. You could have kept up the disguise and nobody would have been any wiser. Magic is a very good veil from which to hide behind. Why give up your anonymity? Even with the Oath, you have to know that the vampires present beforehand will definitely spread word of a supernatural being that looks human invoking the ancient rites and asking for an Oath? If anyone were looking for you, that would be a pretty large indicator of just where you are holed up – convincing disguise or not.”

**Morgan POV**

Morgan would’ve let out a sigh of relief if she had been any less aware that her body language was being scrutinized right along with the explanation she just finished giving about her reason for being here. She gazed at Mr. Northman, attempting to gauge how he was reacting to her – admittedly – rather information heavy response. He was looking off into the middle distance, somewhere over her left shoulder. He had had that same expression on his face since she guessed he finally got a whiff of her true scent after she shifted back into her true skin – well, almost true skin. Morphing does funny things to your scent, or so she’s heard from other supernaturals. Something in her magic recognized she was trying to disguise herself when she morphed, so she assumed that her magic obfuscated her scent as well. Rather handy, that. He had looked rather shell-shocked, a bit of an extreme reaction in her opinion, before sharing a look at his progeny and then proceeding to stare off into the middle distance probably mentally sorting through information and cross referencing with his own recollection of mages and Magical Britain in general.

After several moments during which she alternately gazed at Pamela and Eric, the male vampire finally looked at her and broke the comfortable silence in the bar. “While I can certainly see why you registered under an alias for the Magical government, what I don’t understand is why you came here and divulged your true identity. You could have kept up the disguise and nobody would have been any wiser. Magic is a very good veil from which to hide behind. Why give up your anonymity? Even with the Oath, you have to know that the vampires present beforehand will definitely spread word of a supernatural being that looks human invoking the ancient rites and asking for an Oath? If anyone were looking for you, that would be a pretty large indicator of just where you are holed up – convincing disguise or not.”

Why indeed? She would have to play this carefully. While these vampires weren’t really a match for her, she tries to avoid altercations whenever possible – trying to stay off-the-radar is a little hard when pissing off the local power in the area. She couldn’t exactly say she came in here with every intention of doing exactly what he had suggested, but she didn’t want to lie to him either. Her magic was giving her little shocks every time she gave a serious thought to outright lying to him. Obfuscation, half-truths, and prevacation seemed to be okay with her finnicky magic, but not outright lying – how odd. Mentally shrugging her shoulders – she can feel the ghostly smack on her shoulder from Narcissa at even thinking about shrugging – she resigns herself to mostly telling the truth and hoping that the blond is as laid back as she thinks he is. “It seemed to be a very bad idea to lie to a vampire with over 1000 years of life behind him about something as simple as who I am. I hazarded a guess you wouldn’t care enough about a mage from a small part of an even smaller percentage of the population in Europe – regardless of what happened over a decade ago. Not to mention you would have figured out who I was eventually. I plan on staying here for a while and I have notoriously bipolar luck, so sooner or later I would be brought to your attention, either directly or indirectly. I decided I’d rather deal with the lesser fallout by telling you now than the fallout from an angry vampire after finding out he had been lied to.”

He gave her a considering look, once again exchanging a knowing glance with his child. She wondered how their bond manifested itself. Vampire bonds were something that she hadn’t really had the chance to study, with vampires being notoriously inclusive and secretive and what-not. Startled out of the tangent her thoughts had taken by Mr. Northman’s voice, which had taken on a slightly sarcastic tone, “You guessed correctly. I would have been more than a little irritated to learn I had been lied to about the identity of a resident in my own Area. I’m also guessing that there is probably more to your reasoning for actually telling me the truth, but I’ll let you keep your secrets for now. While you are certainly not obligated to, I would appreciate it if you could leave your contact information with Pamela so that I could get in touch with you if any problems of the magical variety pop up. The hedge-witches in this area don’t have a particularly good relationship with vampires, and a mage no doubt would be more knowledgeable than a witch anyways. I will of course, compensate you for your services.”

Morgan internally weighed the offer. She was glad he didn’t take offense – she really didn’t have time to deal with pissy vampires – she wasn’t exactly sure she wanted to be essentially “on-call” for any magical mayhem that may go on in this area. There was a pretty large ley line that ran a few miles north of where she lived which, combined with her bipolar luck, is almost a guarantee for magical mayhem. She was about to say just exactly that, but promptly changed course once her magic gave her yet another shock. She was getting tired of this. “I can do that, Mr. Northman. Like I said earlier, my luck tends to land me in the most awkward situations, so the least I can do is provide you with my information. However, in the case that you actually require my services for something I had no part in creating, how do you plan on compensating me? You surely know I have no need of money.”

He squinted at her like she was a particularly interesting lab experiment that had somehow not gone the way it was planned to, but he wasn’t mad about the outcome – just perplexed. “What about property?” he asked.

“I have more than enough property spread throughout every continent except Antarctica – not really interested in accumulating more paperwork for my bankers.” she retorted.

Again, with the squinty, this time accompanied by a, dare she think it, cute, face tilt. “What exactly would you want in payment in exchange for you aid?” he asked after a few seconds of cute face-tilt-squinting at her.

Giving him a once-over while she pretended to think, she finally looked at his face again and smiled a Cheshire-cat grin – all teeth and mischievousness. Mr. Northman seemed unaffected, but his eyes gained a little bit of weariness to him. Probably from having a progeny who likely used that same expression on him. Men tended to react the same when given the off-putting smile from the females in their lives – something she took advantage sparingly for maximum effect. After letting him stew for a second, Morgan finally replied, “Information, Mr. Northman. You can pay me in information that we both agree is equitable to the job being done. Information that you will take an Oath beforehand ensuring that what you are divulging is true to the best of your knowledge.”

He looked distinctly uneasy now, so she elaborated further, “Nothing harmful to you or your bloodline, of course. Mostly I’m just interested in an insider’s view of the vampire hierarchy and history. European vampires are even more inclusive than British wizards and I’ve always been a curious thing.”

After a long moment where they both stared at each other, Mr. Northman likely trying to gauge her sincerity, he finally gave in. “We have a deal Ms. Potter-Black. Please leave your information with Pamela before leaving my bar. I’ll be seeing you in the future, mage.”

Finishing his sentence, Eric suddenly rose from his gaudy throne and swiftly departed to a side hallway that probably led to his office – or the exit. Nonplussed by his abrupt departure, Morgan turned her attention to Pam, who was already coming toward her with her phone out and ready for Morgan’s contact information. After relaying her phone number, email address, and physical address to Pam, she exchanged a terse farewell with the female vampire and made quick work of exiting the bar.

Once she made it to the parking lot, she noticed the only two other cars in the parking lot besides her black ’67 Camaro – the only reason she didn’t have her Aston Martin there was the whole “staying low” thing. Camaros were pretty common in the States, right? Okay well maybe not fully restored classic ones with matte black finishing but sue her – she liked her transportation fast. The minivan was a surprising choice, but she wasn’t one to judge – however, the pink color ruled out Mr. Northman as the owner. Unless he was on the losing side of a very funny bet, she just couldn’t see him driving the van even if it was the last car in the city. The candy-apple red Corvette on the other hand, now that she could definitely see Mr. Northman driving. It was a little flashy for her taste, but different strokes and all that. Pam driving a minivan was a bit surprising and gave her a little more insight to the stand-offish vampire.

Mentally shaking off her wandering thoughts, she opened her car door and sat down. She looked in her rear-view mirror and could see someone – a very tall someone – close the door on the opposite side of the building from where she just exited, heading back in Fangtasia. She silently reprimanded herself for being so preoccupied with her thoughts that she was unaware of a predator in her immediate vicinity. Giving in to the urge to physically sigh, she put her car in gear and headed toward her house. She was quite looking forward to a spot of tea and curling up with the idea of no social interaction for the coming months to keep her company. She couldn’t wait. She wondered then, why her magic seemed to disagree with her.

**Eric POV**

He listened to Ms. Potter-Black give her address to his progeny from the privacy of his office where he didn’t have to keep such rigid control over his expressions. He had been at his limit for being surprised and actually showing it on his face, and he had hardly spent more than 15 minutes in the woman’s company. He was frankly intrigued – she smelled dangerous, more dangerous than any non-Vampire supernatural he had met. Curiously, this didn’t send his instincts into a frenzy. He thought about calling his Maker and asking him about his reactions to the mages he met over the course of his life. Godric had been around almost double the amount of time Eric had walked the Earth. Surely, he would have more information about them and his odd reaction to the woman.

Hearing her exit his bar, he quickly got up and went to the side exit of the bar, not able to resist getting one last look at her and also to check out the car he had heard when she arrived. He wasn’t disappointed. Her car matched her personality rather well he thought. Understated and a statement on its own. Eric also couldn’t resist getting one more look at her figure, this time from a different angle. She looked muscular now that he was seeing her walk. She had thighs that were larger than her typical frame and height would suggest, and her legs and ass didn’t move a lot when she did walk, indicating a lack of fat. He took a second look at her while she walked and recognized the gait, the style of walking she had that was familiar to him. Even in high heels, she walked remarkably similar to how Godric walked. Predatory, even in rest – dangerous and with both knowledge and experience so ingrained that it integrated itself into their unconscious walking pattern. He’d seen very few beings – vampire or not – walk like that. Feeling a chill run down his spine, Eric suddenly had the thought that his life was probably not going to be boring with Ms. Potter-Black taking up residence in his Area. He wasn’t sure if liked the idea or not.


	2. A QUIET NIGHT IN AND A PHONE CALL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries in any way. If I did, I sure as heck wouldn’t be writing fanfiction, lol. The characters in this story belong to their respective authors and creators. This is their sandbox – I’m just playing in it. 
> 
> Author’s Note: Merry (late) Christmas, guys! Thank you for all the lovely favorites, follows and reviews! It warmed my heart to know that people were actually reading this story! Ya’ll inspired me to finish this chapter sooner than I had planned. No Eric/Morgan interaction, but a lot of background info is in this chapter. You also get some nice Eric/Godric interaction. All of the info in this chapter is crucial to the story, Morgan in particular, so I’m sorry if it feels a little boring, but it’s all important – promise ;) Again, reviews, follows & favorites are more than welcome!
> 
> Italics = Old Swedish
> 
> Edited on 12/31/19 to break up some of the larger paragraphs and correct a few grammatical errors.

**A QUIET NIGHT IN AND A PHONE CALL**

**Morgan POV**

It had been two blessedly quiet weeks since what she is mentally referring to, privately at least, the “Fangtasia debacle.” She wanted to groan just thinking about how off-track the entire night went. She couldn’t believe that she had actually told them half of what she did. Absolutely bloody barmy she was. The next morning, after realizing what she had done, she actually went ahead and checked herself for mind-altering potions or spells. She had hoped she was actually compelled. It would be easier than trying to explain just what exactly she had done. A sentiment shared by her erstwhile ex-husband and former-but-not-actually-former-Dark-Lord.

Tom had Floo’d her almost 48 hours on the mark after the meeting-that-must-not-be-named to thoroughly chew her out for drawing enough attention to herself that he heard about it from an ocean away in less than a week. While he had a point – a pretty good one actually – Morgan had already moved through the shock of what she had done and was firmly in a state of denial over the whole thing.

All she could think about during the thirty-minute ass chewing was that this, this right here is why they could never actually fall in love with each other. Other than the whole thing where he was conceived via love potion and thus can’t normally process and deal with love as an emotion. He can love and does love – it was just a long process spanning many years to get the arsehole to actually admit and show it. Falling in love, romantic love, is probably a few decades (or centuries) beyond him at this point. Fucked up emotions or not, the man sure knows how to lecture like an older brother. Without the marriage contract that collected dust in the Slytherin vault for nearly 800 years before it became valid, Morgan and Tom would more than likely still be exactly where they are today bickering like brother and sister – just probably without their son in the picture. As much as she hated that yet again another choice was taken away from her, she wouldn’t trade their son for anything in the word. A sentiment she is sure that is shared by his father.

Having a child in the house was the only reason she and Tom had stayed bonded for more than a decade instead of separating after being together for the length of time that the contract had stipulated. After Alex had gotten his Hogwarts letter, they had sat down and came up with a timeline for separating their lives from each other, physically at least. It was still new to her, being separated and living alone, but her most recent Floo call was a testament to the fact that she would never truly have a life completely devoid of Tom’s presence. She was actually rather happy over that fact. No one spends ten years with a person without forming some kind of attachment, romantic or platonic.

After getting muscle cramps from sitting in front of the Floo for close to an hour (“ _No I can’t just come over and lecture you in person, Morgan! Maybe if you have a physical reminder of this little chat, you’ll be more likely to actually remember the reason why I called in the first place and, gods-above, take some kind of measures to prevent anything like this in the future_ ”), she spent the next two weeks in blissful isolation. Isolation from humans or human-like supernaturals, that is. She happened to have quite a few animals living on the large expanse of land surrounding her new Louisiana home. A few hippogriffs, some Abraxans, and a heard of thestrals in the copse of trees surrounding the lake on the north side of her property. Last, but certainly not least, was Fern the basilisk, previous resident of the Chamber of Secrets.

What was a 1000-year-old basilisk doing in northern Louisiana? Simple – once the giant snake had heard that Morgan was going on an extended holiday (of sorts), Fern said she was coming with her and no amount of cajoling or bribing from Tom could get her to stay in cold muggy Scotland for a moment longer. It was one of the very few arguments she ever saw Tom lose, but then again, how does one argue with a 1000-year-old snake that could eat you for an appetizer? She agreed to take Fern with her as long as she was able to put a dampener on her eyes so that she didn’t accidentally kill any humans she came across. Morgan honestly loved having the ancient snake with her – she was an absolute riot. If Tom knew that Fern was entertaining her with stories of his angsty teenage years, he’d probably have a stroke. Having someone who she could have a reciprocal conversation with also alleviated some of the boredom inherent in purposefully isolating herself. Some people may find it odd that she counted Fern as one of her best friends, but honestly, she found animals and creatures to be better companions than humans most days. They didn’t complicate their lives with power plays or mental games like most magicals, or even mundanes, that she knew.

Morgan spent most of the time that she didn’t spend in her large basement library outside with Fern. They laid under the sun, playfully chased around the four-legged creatures on her property and worked on Morgan’s most recent “problem.” Currently, she was sitting in a field a few dozen meters away from her house with Fern attempting to transform into her third and final animagus form. Ever since she was able to get a glimpse of her newest form about five years ago, she had dedicated a truly ridiculous number of hours a month to sitting and meditating with both Fern and Tom in the hopes of being able to transform. She didn’t have the same trouble with her first two forms, although her magical form took about triple the amount of work than her first, and only, non-magical form. Tom and Fern were both of the opinion that she still didn't have the control necessary for the transformation to be able to take hold of her. Tom wasn’t able to complete his Parsel animagus form until he was over 40 years old and Morgan was only 28. Considering their forms were almost identical, she wasn’t exactly excited to hear that she probably had to wait ten or more years to be able to complete it. Hence, the ridiculous amounts of meditation with her snakey-best-friend. She was competitive at heart and she rarely was able to best Tom at any thing magical, so she was giving it her all. Not to mention her form was bloody brilliant as well.

When it finally got dark outside, Morgan called their unsuccessful meditation session to an end, discouraged even though she knew, rationally, that she shouldn’t be. She said her farewells to Fern for the night and watched as her friend made her way through the forest toward the den she had dug out at the farthest reaches of her property. After even her heightened eyesight could no longer see Fern, she made her way into her house and decided to fix something to eat that wasn’t a frozen TV-dinner. Meditating consciously used mind-magic and was havoc on one’s metabolism. She was absolutely famished. She got all the pots and pans out in order to make steak, vegetables, and potatoes. Morgan decided that since she was in the States, she should at least sometimes try to eat “American food.” After taking the vegetables and potatoes off of the gas range, she set two large steaks on her indoor grill, and promptly got lost in her thoughts about her trip to Fangtasia yet again. Even though she spent less than an hour in the actual bar, the visit seemed to be taking up more and more of her thoughts for something she considered over and done with.

She was still a little bit off kilter from her meeting. The vampire and magical communities of Europe didn’t exactly have much of a relationship; mainly because they both tended to be very secretive and didn’t particularly care about the other species. The magical community of Britain was highly inclusive and had little-to-no interaction with the muggles outside of business dealings. Contrary to magicals, vampires mainly lived in the muggle world. So, aside from some public diplomatic meetings held during ICW summits (not to mention private ones she attended with Tom in order to secure alliances or non-interference pacts), she had very little previous interactions with the vampiric community. In America, things were quite different. Both magicals and vampires immigrated to the colonies around the same time period and their lack of numbers caused the two species to form a comradery of sorts. The American magicals tended to live side-by-side with the muggles, or no-majs as some of the Yanks called them on this side of the Atlantic. One of the effects was that when a magical or vampire moved to a new district or area in the States, they had to check in with both the magical and vampire authority. It didn’t make sense to her, it’s not like she was going to be active or have any sort of impact on the vampiric community of the area, but then again, nothing the Americans did really made sense to her – why create a whole different temperature and measuring system that only one country uses?

Pulling her thoughts back on track, Morgan was reluctantly impressed with the Sheriff and his progeny. She knew that mages were rare and often sought after by all sorts of supernaturals for their blood or power. Eric Northman and his child had hardly shown any kind of reaction to her status which she had kept secret from all but her dearest friends and family. Whether that was because impassivity was their default facial expression, or they were not inexperienced enough to show any signs of wanting to exploit in the future her for her power or blood, she did not know. Both her finnicky magic and battle-tested instincts gave her the impression that they weren’t a direct threat to her, so she was cautiously optimistic about trusting, however unwillingly, these two vampires with the secrets of her identity and status. Only time would tell if her instincts were wrong and she wasn’t exactly defenseless against the undead, either.

The sound of her steaks sizzling on the grill brought Morgan out of her thoughts. She quickly plated her steaks to let them sit while she got herself situated at the small table in her kitchen. As she ate, she looked out of the window in her kitchen that took up nearly the entire back wall of her house. Out of all the properties she had, this one definitely ranked in the top five of her favorites. Probably because she had a hand in everything about the property, from the location of the land to the design of the house itself. A few months ago, she had finally left England and the insanity that was the British Wizarding World. Five years ago (in preparation for her exodus from England), she had bought a parcel of land in an unincorporated section of northern Louisiana and promptly hired contractors to build a good-sized house on the 70-acre plot. Nothing too ostentatious, the point of being in nowhere Louisiana was to hide - not stick out - a sizable 4 bedrooms on the upper floor, a normal layout including a kitchen with an open space right off of it that served as an informal dining room, an office, a formal dining room, pantries, closets, laundry room and full sized bathroom on the ground floor.

But it was the basement that was the heart of the house and where she put the most effort into. After the contractors were finished with the bare bones of the house, she made frequent trips before her permanent relocation in order to put all the finishing touches on the house in addition to magically expanding her master suite and the basement of the property. She had gotten used to finer living this past decade, so she made sure that her master suite could compete with the bed and bathrooms featured in magazines and TV shows. The basement, however, was designed with function instead of comfort in mind. Expanded to roughly ten times its normal size, the basement was then sectioned off into three areas separated by magical barriers layered into the support beams and wood framework in order to avoid any nasty surprises that might pop up from one too many explosions. A potion laboratory and a seemingly empty room that was actually a dojo-of-sorts for her to train and keep up her physical and magical fitness made up the first two areas. The last room was where she spent the majority of time – the library with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with rare and advanced tomes on any and all kinds of magic and desk that was a work of major magical prowess just by itself.

The desk was one of the projects she was most proud of – a combination of runes, blood magic, and charms that had gotten her passed her mastery tests of all three subjects. A year of blood and sweat (literally for the blood part) of painstakingly selecting runes and infusing them with her own blood that would bind the desk to her and her direct bloodline while obfuscating the contents of the desk for anyone else who decided to pry into her business. She came up with the idea after one too many instances of Tom’s bootlickers snooping around in her work, convinced she was a spy and working for the “Light.” After finding more than a few of his subordinates seemingly in an endless sleep laying near her desk, he had firmly made it an order to leave her desk alone on pain of death or dismemberment. It seemed he got tired of bribing her with rare books on parsel and blood magic in order for her to resuscitate the idiots. A shame, that – it was great fun for her, and she got to expand her collection of rare books. Her desk was the only place she felt secure enough for her most important paperwork as it had a conditional Fidelius on it and she was able to summon it to her side anywhere in the world and through any wards she had tested it on (yet).

Morgan was surprised to find that she had wolfed down her dinner in the short time that she was lost in thought. It seemed she tended to be a little self-reflective without company. Grabbing an apple and a drink for a snack, she went down the stairs that led to her magically expanded basement. Another good thing about the way she designed her house was that all the overtly magical things about her house were stored in the basement (besides her expanded master suite, and she had no intention of bringing anyone in there for the foreseeable future). She would be able to have muggles come into her home without worrying about breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. Hell, even the door in the laundry room that led to her basement was hidden under a slew of muggle repelling and notice-me-not wards so any curious ( _cough_ nosey _cough_ ) guests wouldn’t be able to stumble upon it while she was otherwise occupied. She got settled behind her lovely desk and picked up a tome on vampiric blood magic that she was finally inspired to read after her meeting with a certain vampire Sheriff. For some reason, she thought it would come in handy in the near future. She shivered just thinking about the chaos her thrice-cursed-luck would probably end up getting her into.

**Eric POV**

Eric sat behind his desk in his office in Fangtasia, once again thinking about the little mage that had been on his mind for the past two weeks. He didn’t have the patience to sit on his throne and deal with the blood bags tonight and for once he wasn’t in the mood to pick up any of the mediocre women that filled his club for a snack. After doing his own digging into her background while being careful about revealing who he was actually looking into, Eric was finally to the point of giving in and calling his Maker. While he couldn’t reveal who he was asking about, he did have some wiggle room available to hopefully drop enough hints for his Maker to be able to figure it out on his own. Godric had a mind that was able to make the most out of seemingly non-related information, a trait honed for thousands of years. Eric was more than certain his Maker would be able to come to the correct conclusion about the identity of his newest resident without having to strain the Oath enough for it to actually punish him.

After doing as thorough of a background check as he was able to without any of his informants actually residing in the magical section of the United Kingdom, he had first decided to check out where she lived. He didn’t expect to get any information about her past, but he thought he may be able to get an idea of her personality by the type of house she lived in and how a magical being of her caliber protected it. He really wasn’t expecting what he got, which was yet again more questions than answers. He had proceeded carefully once he was sure that he was near the property address she had given Pam, having looked up the tax records online and saw that she had also purchased a good deal of the land surrounding the address. He remembered running afoul of wards set up by witches and wizards more than a few times in his youth. Godric had quickly cured him of that habit by leaving him trapped inside the magical protections until the witch or wizard came to see what set off their wards. Needless to say, his Maker became quite good at killing those who thought they found an easy source of vampire blood to sell while making a few friends of the more honorable ones they came across. One of those long dead wizards, a Frenchman by the name of Rupert if he remembered correctly, actually stayed with them a few years and taught Eric how to recognize the scent of magic in the air that indicated a ward. Thankful for the lesson hundreds of years later, Eric was able to stop a scarce few feet away from what he barely recognized as quite a powerful ward just inside the property line. He was actually surprised that he had recognized it – he had thought that a mage would be able to ward her property well enough to hide the signs of it.

Any odd disappointment he felt at seemingly overestimating her abilities quickly disappeared from his mind as he caught a whiff of a creature he had only ever smelled one time in his more than a thousand years on this Earth – the insane woman had a basilisk roaming around on her property. He suddenly had the strongest urge to run very far and very fast in the opposite direction from where he was currently at. The only time he had ever smelled one was in the 11th century while journeying through present-day India with his Maker. Even at Godric’s advanced age then, they had both immediately vacated the area that was heavy with a strangely dichotic dry and humid scent that had acidic undernotes. Godric had later told him the strange scent was that of a basilisk - a giant snake that could grow to over 40 meters in length and more than two meters across. Not to mention the most deadly poison known in the world combined with a killer (literally) glare. The one on Morgan Potter-Black’s property had an even stronger scent than the one he had only briefly smelled in India all that time ago.

He hadn’t even realized he was standing there, jaw dropped, gaping like a fool, until he was brought out of it by two mental jabs from the bonds he shared with his Maker and progeny. He must have been unconsciously projecting for his Maker to have felt it through even the shields Godric had pulled up between them after their parting during the 1940s. He shook of the melancholic feeling that accompanied his Maker’s mental presence and, after sending reassurance through both his bonds, he gave the house sitting near the center of the property his undivided attention.

He was wary about staying here for a minute longer after smelling such a deadly apex predator relatively near him. But he was already here, and he always was a little less cautious than his Maker would prefer. A seemingly normal two-story house with green and cream siding and a dark brown roof stood under the shade of some oak trees. His view only showed him the back of the house, so he was able to see a huge picture window that took up most of the downstairs rear of the house and an upstairs deck that was probably off of the master bedroom that gave the area under it some protection from the unrelenting Louisiana sun. A hanging swing and a table took up the shaded area along with some plants hanging from the bottom of the deck in carriers. A small garden filled with some of the most random plants he had ever seen took up the space directly to the side of the shaded area. He wondered what they were for.

Suddenly, the wind shifted, and the the dry-humid-acidic scent of basilisk caught on the breeze, reminding him that it was a very bad idea to sit idle here. Disappointed that he couldn’t glean more information from his resident mage, Eric high-tailed it home with more than one glance behind him to make sure he didn’t have a large scaly snake following him.

His little excursion had been over a week ago, and aside from finding out the mage liked to keep killer exotic snakes for guards, he had no new information on her. Eric gave an almost indistinguishable sigh and finally used the phone had been looking at blankly for the past hour to place a call to Godric. He was strangely nervous as he listened to the line ring multiple times and almost hung up the phone before Godric answered, greeting him in his ever-present calm voice.

“Hello Child, it's been a while since you have contacted me. Does this unexpected call have anything to do with the sudden burst of emotion I received from you a few weeks ago?”

Eric mentally chewed over his words for a moment. Something didn’t really sound right about Godric’s voice – it was too monotone, almost like it was a chore for him to talk. He knew better than to ask about it though – his Maker didn’t do well with people prying into his personal business, only child of Godric’s or not. “In a round about way, yes it does. Have you ever run into a mage, Maker? Before you turned me, I know that you had roamed throughout Europe. Did you ever come across one of them? I recently did and have run into some roadblocks when trying to dig up some information about her.”

The line was silent for a long moment. Eric was more than slightly nervous now.

“Just what exactly have you gotten yourself into, Eric? Did you anger a mage? Gods child, I thought I taught you to have at least some caution when dealing with powerful magical beings, or did my leaving you entrapped in wards during your younger years really teach you nothing?” Godric’s exasperated voice asked. At least it was better than that emotionless tone he had started the conversation with.

Time to backtrack and do some damage control before his Maker goes from exasperated to angry, he realized. It had been almost a century since Godric had been truly angry with him and Eric had no desire to relive the occasion. “No, Godric, I didn’t piss off a mage. My newest resident just happens to be one.”

Godric replied, “Oh, that is good news, then. I wasn’t looking forward to getting you out of whatever trouble you could stir up with a mage. They’re incredibly rare and tend to be a bit eccentric. The last one I met was alive over 1500 years ago. Tell me, how exactly did you gain a mage in your area? What’s her name and where did she come from?”

Waiting a second before he replied, he tried, in vain, to put off the inevitable ass-chewing he was about to get. “Well, I can’t exactly tell you her name. She asked for an Oath of Confidentiality when she came to Fangtasia to check in. What I can tell you is that she is young – under 30 and she came to my area from Magical Britain. From what I was able to dig up, she went to school in Surrey until 1991 before seemingly disappearing, only to pop back up 8 years later with a slightly altered name that was suddenly attached to some of the oldest businesses in Europe. I’m assuming she disappeared to due to attending whatever magical school is in that region. She’s a peer in both the non-magical and magical Parliaments and is currently living a in a seemingly normal house - aside from the fact she keeps a basilisk for a glorified-guard dog.”

Eric could hear Godric inhale and then let it out in a slow sigh, replying in rapid fire Old Swedish this time. Shit. “ _I don’t even know where to begin, Eric. Why in the world would you give an Oath to a mage you know nothing about? I’m surprised you were able to tell me as much as you have. Mages, in my experience, know better than to leave Oaths open ended to such an extent._ ”

Quickly replying in his native tongue, Eric hurried to reassure his Maker, “ _I was able to add a condition that prevents punishment in the case that I’m forced to reveal her identity if the safety of our bloodline is in danger. The wording she used was more open-ended than I would have expected. She is still pretty young, so maybe she just didn’t think to be more specific in her wording_?” Eric shrugged thinking about it – he had no idea really, but whatever caused her to leave Oath with so much leeway worked out in his favor.

 _“If your mage is who I think she is, I wouldn’t be so sure about using her age to excuse what may seem to be an unintentional oversight. I believe that the wording was intentional and is probably a test of some sort. If your mage truly is Ms. Potter-Black, she has the protection of some of the oldest families in Western Europe behind her. Not to mention her rumored husband’s not so inconsiderable power_.” Godric hummed as fell silent. Switching back to English, his Maker continued, “Now, do I need to go over why it’s a bad idea to intrude upon a mage’s domain regardless of whether there’s an extremely dangerous predator which is rumored to be faster than most vampires and could swallow your entire 6-feet-plus self in one snap of their jaws?” Godric asked, voice growing terse toward the end of his question.

Eric winced, “No, Maker. Really, I know. I didn’t stay to see the thing, it smelled stronger than the one we ran into in Asia all those years ago. I’m not sure if it’s due to my increased ability to scent or the size and age of the basilisk. And I can’t say either way whether your guess is correct, but I don’t think I’ll need to give you any more hints about her identity now”

Godric hummed again, considering. “Hmm, I thought so. Her being a mage would match up with the strange rumors I’ve heard coming out of Europe for the past decade. Regarding the basilisk – probably both guesses are true, to be frank. The one we came across was rather young – probably less than 300 years old at the time and it has been quite a long while since that happened.” 

A moment of silence passed before Godric once again spoke up, switching back to Old Swedish. “ _Eric, listen to me. You must be very careful around this woman. There isn’t much that’s been made public about her to the supernatural community, but she has been involved in diplomatic meetings with the upper echelons of the European supernaturals – vampires included – along with who we have guessed is either her husband or partner. She’s not someone you can play with, Eric_.”

Surprised, Eric asked, “ _What were these meetings about? She didn’t have a ring on when she came to Fangtasia, but then again, magicals probably have different traditions when it comes to marriage. Do you have any idea who this mysterious husband or partner of hers is?_ ”

“ _You have to remember that I’m getting all this information second hand, Eric. I’m pretty far removed from the European vampire authority’s political machinations these days, thankfully. However, one of my good friends is still on the European Council and has kept me up to date on some of their more important comings-and-goings. Do you remember hearing about the magical war that raged through the United Kingdom and parts of western Europe during the late 60s and 70s? One of the leaders in that war, a Lord Voldemort, disappeared sometime in the fall of 1981. However, some contacts that were familiar with him during the height of his power began getting word from their sources that he had somehow returned from his assumed death in the summer of 1995. Most people didn’t believe that this was the same Lord Voldemort as there were no large-scale battles or news of a breakout from the truly insane prison that housed his more zealous followers. The Council was understandably surprised when they received a request for an audience from a man claiming to be Lord Voldemort, or as he was now going by, Lord Ravenclaw. That wasn’t the last of the surprises in store for the Council, however. The day of his audience, the newly named Lord Ravenclaw was accompanied by a Lady Potter-Black-Gryffindor, better known as Morgan Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived. No older than 16 and on the arm of the person who, it was assumed, killed her parents then proceeded to attempt to do the same to her only for the curse to rebound and, it’s rumored, disincorporate said killer._ ” Godric finished, seemingly amused by the turn of events and the havoc they must have thrown the Council into. Godric always did have a more-than-healthy sense of schadenfreude.

Eric was silent as he thought over what his Maker had just revealed. “ _Just because she showed up with him once doesn’t mean that she is married to him,_ ” Eric pointed out.

“ _Well, if it was only once, then yes, you would have a very good point. However, the purpose for that audience was for both Lord Ravenclaw and Lady Potter-Black-Gryffindor to open negotiations for an alliance between Magical Britain and the European Vampire Council. Over the course of the next year, multiple meetings were held, all of which were attended by both Lord Ravenclaw and your mysterious mage. Around a year after the meetings began, the Council was made aware that they had bonded in a private ceremony. Six months after that, Lord Ravenclaw started attending the negotiation meetings alone. No official reason was given to the Council, but rumors speculated that she was either with child or had had a falling out with Lord Ravenclaw. The former ended up holding more weight, as almost a year after she had stopped coming to the negotiation meetings, she was once again accompanying Lord Ravenclaw up until the negotiations were finalized a few months later_.”

Eric was struck once again by the fact that he was still getting more questions than answers with each additional piece of information he found out about Morgan Potter-Black. He did wonder about one thing, though, “ _Putting the topic of her possible husband on the back burner for a second, how was it possible for two people to negotiate for the entirety of Magical Britain? Members of the peerage and fancy lordships aside, two people should not have been able to negotiate on behalf of an entire country that has famously been harsh on creatures, especially ones considered ‘dark’ like vampires are_.”

“ _Like I said earlier, I wasn’t exactly ‘in-the-know’ for the actual negotiations. But I’m under the assumption that it was a quid-pro-quo relationship. They, Lord Ravenclaw and your mage, probably had to demonstrate that they had control of Britain’s magical Parliament before the Council would take them seriously. About a month before they approached the Council to begin negotiations there was an uptick in the number of resignations from the Wizengamot, that is the British magical Parliament, particularly from what is colloquially known as the ‘Light’ faction. Coincidentally, both Lord Ravenclaw and your mage have their seats registered with the opposite faction – all 30 something of them. Another coincidence was that around two thirds of those empty seats suddenly became registered under the Traditionalist faction once they were filled by the inheriting peers. With only 100 seats total in the Wizengamot, and your mages and these new seats moving to the opposition's banner, the ‘Light’ faction lost control the majority for the first time in almost two decades. It was a quite the upset and caused the famous sorcerer Albus Dumbledore to have to cede control of the Wizengamot to the Traditionalist’s representative, a Lord Malfoy if I’m remembering correctly. After that, many of the harsher creature laws that Britain had been enforcing stopped being enforced until they were eventually disbanded entirely by the Wizengamot in favor of a more lenient and inclusive Creature’s Rights bill. It’s one of the better bodies of law that I’ve seen go through the British system in the last century or so_.”

Eric was a little stunned – a feeling he had felt more than he was comfortable with these past few weeks. “ _Are you saying that the mage living in my Area was part of a coup to overthrow the previous Parliament of Magical Britain?_ ” Hopefully his Maker would forgive his incredulousness.

Godric gave a small huff of laughter as he answered, “ _It would seem so, my child. I’m not sure how involved she was, but she was definitely somewhat in-the-know considering her presence at the Council negotiation meetings. She was also an active member of the Wizengamot as of their last session, which just closed about two months ago. Where things get interesting is that she supposedly killed off Lord Voldemort in May of 1998. At least that is the official story the British magical government was pushing. However, the Council was still meeting with Lord Ravenclaw, assumed to be Lord Voldemort, after May 1998. So, why the lie? It had to have been an elaborate affair. The battle was said to take place at the magical school there, Hogwarts I believe, and a few hundred witnesses were present. To this day, that is the official story of the government of Magical Britain – hence one of your mages more well-known nicknames, the ‘_ Woman-Who-Won.’”

“ _So, just to get everything straight, you’re telling me not only was there a coup, there was a conspiracy to kill off the resurrected Dark Lord who previously terrorized the country, only for said Dark Lord and his maybe-wife, who was the target of his last known attack by the way, to take over the country through a non-violent revolution from within the government? And now they’re using that power to remove some of the harsher laws that gave Magical Britain the back-water reputation it’s had for nearly a century?_ ” He asked his Maker, still incredulous.

“ _Essentially, yes_ ,” Godric answered smugly. That imp of a Maker of his was having fun at his expense. Typical.

“ _But Godric, for all the information you’ve given me, there’s a lot of hearsay in there. There’s very little factual information about the mage herself. Just about what was happening around her_.” He felt it was a valid point to make to Godric.

“ _True, Eric. But like I said, I only got this information second-hand as I’m quite out of the loop of the European Council’s dealings. Not to mention mages are notoriously secretive. The last mage I met was the most cantankerous man I ever had the displeasure of meeting. It seems that your mage also has a habit of being able to hide her true self well, even while in the spotlight of an entire country._ ”

“ _Who was the last mage you met? When was this?_ ” Eric was curious – it wasn’t often that his Maker told him about his travels prior to turning him. There were centuries of Godric’s life that Eric guessed were known only to Godric himself.

“ _I was making my way to Scandinavia, right before I turned you, when I ran across a being whom I thought was a normal magical person in Northern England. I actually, literally, ran into him. He had a cloak on that completely hid him from my eyes and nose. I was traveling at a high speed, so I stopped to see what exactly I had hit. Imagine my surprise when I saw a man appear out of thin air after taking off a shimmering cloak that hid him from my senses. He was quite rude – demanding to know what I had been doing running through ‘his’ woods at such lethal speeds. After about 30 minutes of him calling me every derogatory name in an impressive number of languages, we started to walk and have an actual conversation. I ended up staying with him a few years until he decided to pass on_.”

“ _Decided to pass on?_ ” Eric asked.

“ _Yes, one of the many abilities inherent with being a mage is a way to halt your cells from aging. Since mages are beings of magic instead of getting their magic from a finite source somewhere in the metaphysical realm, they have an extreme amount of control over their bodies due to the way magic influences them. The more experienced a mage is, the more control they have. Eventually, my friend found out a way to halt his aging. By the time I found him, he had been alive for more than 800 years. He was quite ready to move on. He called death, ‘an old friend.’_ ” Godric’s voice had taken on a contemplative note at the end of his story. Something about it shook the very core of Eric’s being. He was confused – why did those words – no, the way the words were said – instill such a sense of dread in him?

Lacking anything to add to the conversation, Eric instead asked, “ _He sounded like an interesting person. What was his name?_ ”

“Ignotus Peverell,” Godric answered in a solemn voice.

After that, their conversation quickly wrapped up. Eric had gotten everything about mages, and his newest resident in particular, out of his Maker by that point. He was still shaken up by the conversation. Once again, he had more questions than answers, and he was sick of it. This mysterious woman was taking up more and more of his waking moments. Not to mention Godric's increasingly alarming behavior. Suddenly, he had an idea. If looking into her background, casing her house, and asking his Maker didn’t give him any answers, why not just ask the source of the mystery herself? The worst she could do was say no and refuse to answer his questions. He didn’t want to look like he was too interested in her, so he needed an excuse to contact her. What could he use for a good reason to visit her house? After a few minutes he came up with a plausible excuse. Quickly texting Pam, he instructed her to get in touch with the mage and pass on that he would be visiting within the week to ask her to do a job for him. That way, she wouldn’t get a chance to say no before he at least visited her house and saw her in person. He hoped he would be able to ask a few questions before she more than likely threw him out.

After double checking with Pam that the message would be sent as per his exact instructions, Eric gathered his jacket, keys and phone, turned off the light, and locked up his office. Deciding how to proceed seemed to take away some of the anxiety about the mage-situation. He did have other things to do besides wonder about his newest resident. His Maker's behavior being one of them.

As he made his way inside his house and got ready for bed, Eric thought he certainly was not bored anymore. 

**Morgan POV**

Roused from her book by the vibrations of her phone against her desk, Morgan saw it was almost dawn. She had read the night away – it was a good thing she didn’t need much sleep anymore, or she’d be in trouble today. She opened her phone to access the text message that had pulled her away from an interesting passage about infusing protections in a vampire’s blood that would be able to be passed on to their bloodline descendants. It was from an unknown number, who turned out to be Pam, letting her know that Eric would be stopping by her house sometime this week in order to tell her the details of a job he hoped she would take. She grunted, annoyed that she didn’t have a more specific idea of when she should she be expecting her visitor, but let it go. She didn’t think she’d get a more concrete answer from Pam, at least not tonight. Yawning, she put down her book and grabbed her phone, slowly making her way up to her room. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, thoughts of blond vampire Sheriffs not far from her mind.


	3. FLOO CALLS AND FULL MOONS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries in any way. If I did, I sure as heck wouldn’t be writing fanfiction, lol. The characters in this story belong to their respective authors and creators. This is their sandbox – I’m just playing in it. 
> 
> Author’s Note: Hello, lovelies :) Thank you all so much for all the kudos – I truly appreciate it. In this chapter, we have some Morgan/Tom & Morgan/Eric interaction, as well as a few other HP characters. Writing conversations is a lot harder than I thought it would be, so I apologize in advance if the convos don’t flow as smoothly as they should. We also get a little preview to the action that will be happening in the next few chapters. Stay tuned for some Morgan/Godric interaction in the next chapter.
> 
> Edited on 12/31/19 to break up some of the huge paragraphs and correct a few grammatical errors.

**Morgan POV**

The ward on her Floo alerted Morgan that she had an incoming call. Only a few people had her most current Floo address, so she wondered who could be contacting her. She was a little shocked when she rounded the corner to enter her living room and saw that her superior-of-sorts, Unspeakable Croaker, was the face waiting in her fireplace. Moving a little faster, she knelt down and quietly greeter her sometimes-boss.

“Hello, Morgan,” Croaker greeted her brusquely, “I know you’re on a sabbatical, of sorts, but I wouldn’t be contacting you if it weren’t important.”

“I know, Croaker. You can skip the pleasantries. Now, tell me what has you so worked up?” She was curious, Croaker hadn’t contacted for a job in over a year. She wasn’t exactly a ‘normal’ Unspeakable. More of a consultant really. She tended to be choosey over what jobs she took. Tom just called her a mercenary on a leash. She chose to ignore the merit in his choice of words.

“Well,” he drew out the word, hesitating, “London office got a call from our American counterparts. They’ve been having some trouble with a coven of hedge-witches that have a particular knack for necromancy. Reports have been trickling in that paint quite a gruesome picture. Missing supernaturals – young vampires in particular – have only corroborated said reports.”

Morgan internally winced as soon as she heard the word ‘necromancy.’ People who dabbled in such Black Magic were never the sanest sort. She had a multitude of almost incoherent journals written by deceased Black ancestors who had dabbled in the Art that just cemented the fact. Still, a coven of hedge-witches, necromancers or not, should be relatively easy for a team of skilled operatives to take out. Confusion barely evident in her voice, Morgan asked Croaker, “Why are the Americans calling London about this? The Americans aren’t exactly lacking when it comes to power or skill in their field agents.”

“The Americans sent a five-man team down to investigate almost two months ago. They haven’t heard from them since they made their initial contact after arriving in the town where the coven is based,” Croaker’s voice had gone hard. “They contacted me almost a month ago to ask for our aid.”

“I’m not sure I’m following, Croaker. If London has known about this for over a month, why are you only now getting into contact with me for what I assume is a standard extraction?” Morgan asked.

“You weren’t our first option. You’re not even technically part of the rank-and-file Unspeakables. We tried to solve the situation in-house first. That was a mistake,” Croaker explained, looking at her with a hint of compassion in his eyes.

She felt a shiver go down her spine, prompting her to ask, “Who did you send, Croaker? What team did you send?” Morgan’s voice had risen uncharacteristically, mind going a in a hundred different directions as a sense of dread pooled in her stomach. She knew they wouldn’t call her if that team had been able to handle it. Bloody hell, they wouldn’t even call her unless they had exhausted all other options. Or, she thought with a detached sense of horror, one of those missing Unspeakables was who she thought it was.

Voice quiet, Croaker replied, “We sent Sirius’s team, Morgan.”

Distantly, she could hear glass breaking in the background. She immediately reigned in her volatile magic. It took her longer than she would have liked to control herself. Her magic was coiling, searching for a threat that wasn’t there, vindictive in its displeasure. Once she thought she was suitably under control, she asked a question she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear the answer for, “Are they even alive?”

“We checked with Gringotts to see if their vaults were still active. Three of the vaults belonging to the team have gone dormant, waiting for the heir or heiress to claim them. Sirius’s vault was not one of them.”

She had underestimated how shaken up she truly was. She should’ve known Sirius was alive. There had been no disturbance in the Black family magic that was as much a part of her as her own skin and bones. She needed to concentrate - she thought she was done letting her emotions control her actions years ago. Breathing out heavily, she finally broke the tense silence, “What about their trackers? Are they still functioning?”

“They were until around two weeks ago. All of them went dead simultaneously. Our best guess is that they entered a highly warded area and were then overwhelmed and possibly captured. Either they are still in that same area or the coven had someone with a good amount of skill find and disable the trackers before moving them,” Croaker’s voice had once again taken on its normal business-like gruffness. Morgan was glad for it, a bit of normality after going through such a shock was quite welcome.

“And their last recorded location?” Morgan enquired.

“About 20 miles north of Dallas, Texas,” Croaker answered. “Morgan you know London’s policy regarding extraction missions – no emotionally compromised operatives are allowed to be part of the team.”

“I recall the protocols quite clearly, Croaker. But I’m not a - what was it you said? Ah, yes a ‘rank-and-file’ Unspeakable, as you pointed out earlier in our conversation,” Morgan replied, already going over the preparations she needed to make for an unscheduled trip to Texas.

Croaker sighed but didn’t put up a fight. He likely knew no amount of arguing could change her mind. “You have one week before London sends a full clean up team accompanied by the Americans. One week, Morgan, not a day longer,” Croaker stressed.

“One week,” Morgan agrees, “send me what you have while the Floo is already open. I’ll send a rough plan through the Protean journals tomorrow at the latest.”

He turned around for a second, grabbing something off the barely visible desk in the background, and then sent the mission file through the Floo. Looking into her eyes for a long moment, Croaker finally replied, “Alright, kid. Be careful. You’ll have to wait a week if you can’t get yourself out of there on your own.”

Morgan nods and moves to close the Floo down. Right before the connection closes, she hears Croaker mutter a quiet, “Find him, Morgan. Bring them home.”

**Eric POV**

He didn’t want to admit it, but Eric had never been good at lying to himself - he was definitely taking longer than usual to pick out his clothes for the night. He tried to tell himself it’s because he’s not going to be sitting at the club tonight, and thus his usual attire wasn’t appropriate. A small voice in his mind, sounding remarkably like Godric, pointed out that he never spends this much time picking out his clothes when he deals with normal Area business outside of Fangtasia. Mentally, he conceded defeat. It was too early in the night to be arguing with himself, already. Finally picking out some dark wash tight jeans, black leather boots, grey button-down shirt, and his normal leather jacket, he stopped in front of the mirror to check his appearance. He was satisfied with what he saw – he looked nice but without looking like he was trying to impress anyone.

He sent a quick text to his child reminding her that he wouldn’t be at the club for a few hours, if he even decided to stop by Fangtasia at all. He promptly received the expected acknowledgement, flavored with his child’s personal brand of sarcasm. Smirking at his progeny’s sass, he grabbed his keys and locked up the house, quickly making his way to his car.

Eric let his mind wander as he drove. He had decided to ask the mage if she would ward his office at Fangtasia. Very few vampires are able to get a witch or wizard to ward their property. There are a few reasons for that: it takes a witch or wizard of considerable knowledge and power to even cast the most basic wards, most witches and wizards tend to be wary of other supernaturals, and vampires tend to distrust witches and wizards with something as important as protecting their personal spaces. The latter reason is what keeps most vampires from seeking out an agreeable witch or wizard and asking them to ward their properties. By creating the ward, the witch or wizard would then know exactly how to enter the space they warded. What was the point of going through the trouble to get a place warded if somebody knew where it was and how to access it? Normal security measures weren’t exactly hard for a skilled witch or wizard to bypass, either. Not to mention that any magical being capable of warding would also be difficult, if not impossible, to glamour into forgetting the location that they had warded.

Now, Eric didn’t let Ms. Potter-Black’s admittedly pretty face, or his own curiosity, distract him from the fact that he did not, in fact, trust her. However, he was also aware of the advantages of having a mage residing in his area. Since his instincts didn’t tell him that she was completely untrustworthy or out to harm him, he was willing to gamble on the mage. A test of sorts. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where his office at Fangtasia was located. He didn’t lose any security by asking her to ward it. That his emergency light-tight room would also be de-facto protected by the warding, as the only entrance to it was through a hidden panel disguised as a bookcase, was a pretty nice bonus. Not that he would be letting that little fact slip to the mage.

The situation would also allow him to spend more time in her company – hopefully alleviating some of the nagging curiosity he felt about her. It didn’t hurt that she was quite beautiful either. Different from his normal type, but still pretty. His mind chose that moment to remind him of Godric’s warning – he may not be able to play his normal games with her, but that doesn’t mean he can’t look, does it? He tried to convince himself that he isn’t drawn to her presence, remembering the sensation unlike any other that he had ever felt the first time they met each other’s eyes. He failed.

The only flaw in his plan is his uncertainty that she would actually agree to it. Even before his conversation with Godric, Eric was aware that Morgan Potter-Black was somewhat of a celebrity. She was known to the supernatural community in America even with an ocean between it and her birthplace. Now with the knowledge that she comes from old money as well, he realized that she may think taking a warding job to be beneath her. Add that to the fact she was a mage, not just a regular witch, the list of reasons for her to turn down his offer seemed to outweigh any reasons for her to accept it. He refused to be deterred, though. This was honestly the only plan he had, and he was committed to seeing it through. He hoped that the promise of knowledge about vampires was enough of an incentive. While a little weary about sharing anything that could possibly put a vampire at a disadvantage with a powerful magical, Eric justified it by mentally promising not to share anything too damaging. Any vampire worth their undead existence would be able to at least escape her if she chose to act on the knowledge he planned to share. If not, well, it’s not his fault that the hypothetical victim is a pathetic waste of magical blood. The choice didn’t weigh on his mind.

Eric realized that he had been stuck in his thoughts long enough that he almost missed the turn-off that lead to her house. He was a little curious to know what the front of her house looks like. He was only able to get a quick look at the back of the seemingly normal house before he was admittedly scared off by the scent of basilisk. Suddenly, he remembered that it would probably be a good idea to text her and let her know that he would be arriving shortly so that he can avoid becoming basilisk chow. Reluctantly embarrassed not to have thought of it sooner, he sent a quick text message off right before turning. A ten-minute warning is better than nothing. Worst case scenario, he’s confident enough in his ability to at least outrun the gigantic snake.

About ten minutes later, he came to a stop outside of the metal gate that encloses the property. Feeling and smelling the magic of powerful wards tied into the gate, he politely knocked on it, knowing thanks to the long-dead-Rupert’s lessons that the mage will have felt it and to wait until the gate opens before just waltzing in like he wanted to do. As the seconds tick by, Eric wondered if the mage is even home before the gate slowly creaked open. Taking the gesture to mean he should enter the property; he got back in his car and drove down the road toward the house he could see in the distance. Illuminated by the bright, full moon, the green and cream house with the dark brown roof looked just as normal, though much better maintained, than the rest of the houses in this part of the state. The image of normalness lessened somewhat when he noticed more of the strange plants that he saw in the backyard surrounding the front of the house as well. Adding to the sense of dissonance was an owl of all things perched by the front door with a peculiar look on its face – can an owl look judgmental? Eric has the absurd thought that this strangely intelligent owl is in fact judging him and has found him lacking.

Shaking off thoughts of unnatural owls, he made a step toward the house before pausing. He heard a heartbeat, but it was not coming from inside of the house like he had assumed. He turned, following the sound toward the grove of trees a few meters away from the property. Keeping an ear out for slithering that he thought might accompany a very large snake, he entered the tree-line, his eyes having no trouble seeing now that the light of the full moon is interrupted by the thick foliage from the oak trees above him. For a few silent moments, he cautiously made his way further into the grove, wondering what exactly the mage was doing hidden in the trees in the dead of night. He doesn’t notice at first, but with each step he takes, there is a pressure surrounding him, making the normally cool-if-humid Louisiana air thick and heavy. As soon as the pressure starts crossing the line into uncomfortable, Eric finally saw her.

She was sitting, facing a small pond, silver in the moonlight, with her back towards him, surrounded by soft, tiny, orbs of light that seemingly floated in the air. The air was charged, he felt it in the tiny sparks that flitted over his skin – raw, untamed magic some distant part of him realized. It was so silent – he couldn’t even hear the ever-present sounds of animals and insects that were normally apparent in every part of this region. He was so utterly shocked- _surprised_ - **entranced** by the sight before him that it took an embarrassingly long time for his mind to register that she was naked. The atmosphere was poignant, some unnamed tension hanging in the air. He couldn’t even make a witty remark if he tried, so he settled for studying her what he could see of her. Obscured as his view was, she looked ethereal, like something **_more_**. Her inky hair was swept over one shoulder exposing her back in its entirety to him. Eric studied the long tattoo spanning the length of her spine – so similar in its placement to Godric’s. Hundreds of symbols – runes, he realized – ran from her hairline to the end of her spine. He could see faints hints of similar symbols running along the tops of her shoulders and down her arms. The second thing he noticed were the scars. Her back was covered in so many of them, he couldn’t even begin count them. Curiously, they didn’t run through the large tattoo bisecting her back. The scars that should have crossed her spine vanished along the two inches the tattoo took up widthwise and continued on the other side. Eric was struck by the variety of them. He noticed three sizable slashes on her shoulder, a claw mark from a very large animal, he mused. The lashes taking up the broadest space on her back could only be from a belt. The rest of her back was interspaced with hole-like scars, some asymmetrical and some almost perfect. He wondered if this woman had ever been shot, and if so – how, why? - or if there was another explanation for the small, perfectly circular scars. He didn’t know how long he stood there, frozen, simply taking in the scene before him – the lights, the trees, the absolute silence as if the air itself was holding its breath, the mage herself.

He realized that this was the first time he had truly understood what Godric had meant when he said that magic was remarkable, captivating, beautiful, and a hundred other words that Eric could find no meaning in.

And suddenly it was gone. Coming back to himself, Eric blinked, almost mourning the loss of such an intense experience. The sounds of animals filtered back in, the lights dimmed and congregated on the ground in a single cluster, the pressure lessened, and the reason for his visit fluidly stood, a soft looking green robe materializing out of thin air to cover her. Tying it deftly, she turned around, unsurprised to see him there, and gave him a level stare that he couldn’t read. There was something different about Morgan Potter-Black tonight, he realized. This was not the exasperated woman who he met at Fangtasia weeks ago, his mind cautioned. Her body was too still, green eyes too bright, energy too tense. She was coiled like a spring with all of her attention focused singularly on him.

**Morgan POV**

Morgan looked over the array of items spread out over her dining room table. She checked and re-checked that she had the appropriate ammunition and corresponding attachments for each of the three rifles she planned on taking with her (it always amazed her how often magicals tended to overlook protection from mundane weapons). She checked and re-checked that her utility belt had triple the amount of healing potions that she usually took on a job, certain that the team she was going after would be in bad shape. She checked and re-checked that the same belt also had a variety of seemingly innocuous items that she knows would cause instant havoc when smashed on the ground (Fred and George, she thinks fondly, are truly demons in human form.) She checked and re-checked that her uniform – dark green basilisk hide, willing donated from one of Fern’s shed skins, was functional and in good condition. She checked and re-checked and checked and re-checked and checked and re-checked until she could hardly think straight anymore.

Mentally reprimanding herself, she stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh. She realized that if she couldn’t think clearly, she had no business going on this scrapped-together rescue mission – and that just was not an option. She looked at the date, considering. It was a full moon, she noted, the perfect time to do a small ritual that would serve three purposes: ritualistically imprint and solidify her magic’s presence on the land, give thanks to nature for the magic that composed her very being, and lastly (but probably the most important to her at this time), calm her magic from its current state as a barely leashed storm into something resembling her own unique state of normal.

Mind made up, she made her way to her hidden basement entrance and went about gathering the few particulars she needed for the particular ritual she had in mind. She grabbed a variety of herbs (horehound for health, rue for clear vision, and honeysuckle for bonds of love) and sprigs of wood (oak for strength, beech for patience, and blackthorn for protection). She also took an ancient looking bronze knife from the confines of her desk – and it is indeed ancient, a Black family heirloom that had called to her magic from the depths of a Gringotts vault many years ago. Making her way back up to the ground floor, Morgan checked the time and realized there were still a good two hours before sunset which meant she had two hours before she could even begin the ritual. She also realized that she should probably give Tom a Floo call to let him know what was going on and that she would be out of reach for a bit. Blowing her hair out of her face in exasperation, she knelt down in front of her Floo for the second time that day and called out the familiar address.

“Thomas Ravenclaw’s Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry,” Morgan clearly called into the flames.

While she waited for the call to connect, she laughingly thought back to the first time the previous Headmaster had heard Tom’s newest appellation in conjunction with actually seeing his face for the first time. How she wished he had actually had a stroke like his expression had suggested. The memory was one of Tom’s absolute favorites – the swot actually kept a copy of it in the cabinet holding his many pensive memories and made a habit of re-watching it frequently. Impotent, unable to relay his concerns to others without seeming even more senile than he was already being portrayed as, Dumbledore was relegated to suffering in silence while watching his most-hated former student climb the social ladder that made up Magical Britain’s elite.

Having to grin and bear Tom’s placement as a professor in his own little pseudo-kingdom of Hogwarts was just icing on the cake for Tom. Being the recognized descendent of Rowena Ravenclaw made his residence at the school uncontestable. Tom’s numerous masteries, of which Defensive magic was just one of many, made his appointment as the professor for the newly renamed Magical Defense post a simple matter of protocol. No amount of ‘surprise’ inspections or thinly-veiled derogatory comments from the Headmaster’s most ardent supporters could move the School Board from their choice – not to mention Tom had them utterly charmed as he was wont to do with most people.

The sound of Tom’s voice brought Morgan out of her reminiscing. She couldn’t help but smile at him once she saw his face in the Floo. Tom looked somewhat shocked to see her, but seemed to quickly process it, calling out, “Morgan, I wasn’t suspecting to hear from you until the Yule holidays. Aren’t you currently supposed to be holed up somewhere in Louisiana, eschewing any kind of human interaction?” he asked with a small smirk curling his handsome face and amusement shining in his eyes.

Rolling her eyes fondly, Morgan responded, “Hello to you too, Tom. How have you been? Is Alex settling into Ravenclaw well? He’s not been having any issues with his year-mates, has he?”

“Hello, dear. I am doing just fine, as always. Alexander has settled into Ravenclaw quite well – Filius has nothing but good things to say about him so far, we’ll see how long that lasts, though. He inherited entirely too much Black blood from you to be doing anything other than creating a false sense of security for his Head of House right now,” Tom said, reluctant pride on his face at the thought of the chaos their son was capable of. “There were a few issues with some of the children of the old man’s former crowd, but thankfully the staff are quite a bit more watchful of such behavior than they were in the past,” Tom added, exasperated. “But then again, you already know all of this. Alex always comes by the day after you give him a mirror-call just like I’m sure he updates you on anything going on with me, the little hellion. So why the Floo call, Morgan? I thought it would be a while before you willingly contacted me again after our last delightful conversation?” Tom looked decidedly amused at the last sentence, his smirk growing wider.

Mood somber, thinking about the news she received earlier, she summarized Croaker’s information for Tom. After a few quick sentences back and forth about her bare-bones rescue plan and a few improvements from Tom, she finally said, “So, I’m going to be out of contact for a few days, a little more than a week at most. I just wanted to let you know where I planned on heading, in the case something happens.”

Tom suddenly looked at her with serious eyes, “Morgan are you sure you don’t want any of my people to come with you? I know you can handle yourself; you were taught by me after all, but two separate teams have run afoul of this coven – hedge-witches or not.”

Morgan smiled at him, grudgingly touched by his concern, “No thank you, dear. I’m not underestimating this coven. I just think one person, particularly a person who can change their features as easy as breathing, will be more effective than a group of people. Not having a team also frees me to use more, _ahem_ , uncommon magic, the knowledge of which I wouldn’t want to get out to the masses.”

Giving a little hum, Tom finally conceded the point, “Yes, I imagine infiltrating this coven by yourself will be less eventful than taking even some of my followers, especially factoring in your more _unique_ talents.” He quickly adds, “However, if something unexpected happens and you find yourself unable to safely extract yourself from the situation, please remember that we still have a mental bond, Morgan. Even if I am unable to come myself, I will still be able to send some kind of assistance.” He must have seen the look on her face before she even opened her mouth to argue with him, “No, don’t argue with me over this, Morgan. I know you, I’m quite acquainted with the way you think and operate. At the first sign that something is off, or it looks like you won’t be able to make it out, don’t reveal your status. I think both of us would much rather keep that particular secret a secret a while longer.”

She sighed and gave him a nod, taking his concerns seriously. “While I’m not sure I appreciate your lack of faith in me, I understand your concerns. I give you my word that I’ll let you know if I find myself in a situation that I’m unable to get out of without compromising myself.” Quietly, she adds, “Thank you, Tom.”

Brushing off her appreciation with his own unique brand of nonchalance, Tom quickly threw back, “Think nothing of it, my dear. You know I’m always in favor of a few precautionary measures over cleaning up a mess after the fact.” He looked at her and winked, adding, “And we all know that you possess quite the talent for creating increasingly large and unexplainable messes, little snake.”

Unable to stop a huff of laughter at the old nickname, Morgan took the teasing in good form, “Hey, I come by mischief-making honestly. It’s not like I chose to have Black blood twice over.” Taking a quick look at her phone, she realized that she had been caught up in this call for a bit longer than she would’ve liked, especially when she remembered she had yet another call to make. “Look Tom, I’m planning to do a small ritual at moon-rise, which is in about an hour, and I still need to call Remus and find out why I had to hear from Croaker that Sirius has been missing for weeks instead of hearing from him. I’ll give you a call as soon as I can and let you know what happens, okay?”

Tom glanced at something to the side of the Floo, probably a clock, “Of course, little snake. I need to get some sleep anyway – I have a Gryffindor/Slytherin morning class, unfortunately. Good luck getting answers from the wolf, I’d be interested in hearing what he has to say.” He opened his mouth to continue his goodbyes when he it looked like he suddenly remembered something, “You said that this coven was targeting younger vampires around the Dallas area, correct?” At Morgan’s nod he continued, “You should consider filling in the vampire in charge of that district, Godric is his name, of what you plan on doing in his area. I’ve never met him in person, but my contacts on the European Vampire Council all have an unusually high opinion of him. He’s quite old and controls his Area very well – he would be interested in ending a threat in his neck of the woods that has already been proven and willing to harm vampires. You shouldn’t fill him in regarding all the particulars regarding yourself, of course, but a bare bones explanation void of personal details should alleviate any curiosity he may have. Just keep it in mind – he may be a source of more up-to-date information.”

“I’ll give it some thought. I’m not too keen on getting involved with more vampires – but like you said, I may not have a choice if I want to get more current details about the coven. I’ll think it over, but I’ll probably at least make a perfunctory stop at this Godric’s residence.”

“That’s all I ask. Until next time, Morgan. Good luck.”

Not one for sentiment, Tom closed the connection quickly, barely giving her enough time to utter her own short farewell. Morgan sat in front of the fireplace, contemplating how her next conversation was going to go. Sighing, she tossed the Floo powder into the fireplace, calling out, “Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London.” 

The longer she waited for somebody to answer, the more her previous temper returned to her. Her father didn’t exist in a vacuum. Their cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, and her husband, Remus Lupin, who was also coincidentally the last one of Sirius’s best friends before he became a (illegal) resident of Azkaban, lived in the Black Family townhouse along with their son, Teddy, when Hogwarts wasn’t in session. Remus at the very least knew that Sirius had a dangerous job, if not the exact particulars about it – Unspeakables were bound by a Confidentiality Oath after all. She was pretty certain that Sirius had also given him her most recent Floo address in case of emergencies. Even if Remus did not, in fact, have her Floo address, there were a plethora of other ways to contact and alert her to her father’s disappearance – mirror call, owl post, a Patronus, and tens of other ways to get ahold of her.

However, Morgan wasn’t exactly surprised that Remus or Dora failed to contact her. They hadn’t exactly ‘hit it off’ with each other, Remus even less so than Dora. Morgan had met Remus in her third year of Hogwarts, having been hired to fill the ever-vacant Defense post. At first, Morgan had only thought of him as an especially competent professor, even if a little run-down in appearance. The fact that it took half of the school year for Remus to tell her that her father was one of his best friends just made Morgan incredibly weary of the man. If he was such good friends with her father, why had she been living in hell-on-earth for the past twelve years? Already aware of the Headmaster’s interest in her, Morgan had erred on the side of caution and just nodded and smiled, like she hadn’t come to the realization that the man was just another in a long line of manipulations that made up her life in the wizarding world.

After the fiasco that was the end of the year, she had had much more important things to worry about than her father’s sorry excuse for a friend, just exposed as a werewolf or not. Her godfather was innocent. Sirius Black had been illegally incarcerated without even the pretense of a trial, kept in arguably the worst place on earth, guarded by creatures who had the capability to literally suck all that was good and human from a person. Needless to say, any hope she had that the British wizarding world wasn’t a waste of magic pretty much died that day. Not to mention the bombshell that her godfather was actually her biological father.

Sirius had had the chance to explain the chain of events that led to that particular occasion. James Potter, having been on the front lines of the war that ravaged Magical Britain, had at one point in time suffered a curse that made him infertile. When James and Lily Potter had found out that they would be incapable of having children by normal means after a year of trying, best-friend-extraordinaire (Sirius’s words, verbatim), stepped in. He truly loved James like a brother, and James had wanted to be able to provide Lily’s deepest desire, a child, they all then ransacked what parts of the infamous Black library Sirius had access to as the still legally acknowledged heir. One illegal ritual later, Lily Potter was pregnant with Sirius Black’s child that would then be blood adopted (again, illegally) by James Potter at his or her birth.

Sirius, being the eternal scoundrel that he was, had no plans to marry, ever, and with his younger brother missing, presumed dead, had decided to make the child the Black heir or heiress, regardless of gender. There was nothing Sirius liked more than a bit of mischief, so eschewing marriage and naming another family member not of his loins as the successor to such an old and prestigious family as the Black’s were was just right up his alley. That Morgan was eligible to inherit through her paternal grandmother, Dorea Black, allowed the three of them to keep up the ruse that Morgan was a Potter through-and-through. A secret that followed James and Lily Potter to the grave and was further kept by Sirius’s illegal incarceration.

Expecting Morgan to be upset over the deception and disappointed by Sirius’s status as an escape convict, Sirius was in for a shock when Morgan firmly attached herself to Sirius like a limpet and forbade him, in all her thirteen-year-old seriousness, from leaving her to chase the escaped Peter Pettigrew and then promptly informed him that they would talk more during the summer before sending him off on the back of Buckbeak, the hippogriff. The following summer was spent sneaking away to meet up with her newly found father, learning the secrets of the Family Black, and filling him in on the twelve years of her life that he had missed.

Needless to say, Sirius was quite upset at the way Dumbledore had mucked up Morgan’s life. He was disappointed, but not surprised, at the way Remus fell in line with Dumbledore’s orders regarding Morgan. Explaining the sense of loyalty that Remus felt towards Dumbledore for allowing him to attend Hogwarts regardless of his lycanthropy, Sirius had laid out the reason why Remus had not even thought to remove Morgan from her relatives’ _care_. While her father might have had an ounce of sympathy for his friend, all his explanation did for Morgan was cause her to move Remus from the ‘treat with caution’ category straight into the ‘not to be trusted’ category right along with the rest of the adults that seemed to think the sun shone out of Dumbledore’s arse. Thankfully, her father being a Black, although the self-described ‘white-sheep’ of the family, combined with his decade long stint in Azkaban and Morgan’s mistreatment and ignorance of her place in their world, cured Sirius of any lingering feelings of loyalty toward his old Headmaster. She was immensely grateful that she now had somebody in her life that was truly on her side, the fact that it was a father she never knew just made it that much better for the then-14-year-old.

Over the years, and many, many long talks accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol, Sirius and Remus had mended their friendship – even becoming extended family once their cousin Dora fell in love with Remus and wouldn’t take his self-depreciation as an excuse to stop a relationship from forming between them. Morgan, however, could never get over the fact that he was yet another adult who took the word of the Headmaster as the gospel truth to ever truly try to build any kind of relationship that evolved passed cordial greetings, no matter any changes of heart from Remus – it was years of blood and tears too late for that. Still, even with the lack of any true relationship between them, it was concerning that Remus hadn’t contacted her to let her know about Sirius’s prolonged absence from Grimmauld Place.

Just as she finished that last thought, Dora’s head finally appeared in the fireplace. Visibly surprised to see Morgan in the Floo as evidenced by the quick flash of her hair revolving through the color wheel, she asked in her normal bubbly tone, “What’s up Morgan?”

Flashing her cousin a small smile, Morgan replied, “Hello, Dora. I was wondering if Remus was in?”

Dora’s face went from surprised to confused, knowing the issues between Morgan and her husband and the lack of any kind of relationship between them. She finally answered, “Sure he is. Hang tight for a second and I’ll go grab him.”

A few seconds after Dora’s face disappeared from the fireplace it was replaced with Remus Lupin’s pre-maturely grey and scarred visage. As he saw that his wife wasn’t trying to trick him for reasons unknown and that Morgan really had asked for him over the Floo, he was quick to speak, “Good evening, Morgan. Not that I’m not happy to hear from you, but we both know that you wouldn’t be calling to have a friendly chat. What can I help you with?”

Taking a few seconds to reign in her temper and mentally reword the first hundred replies that came to mind, Morgan finally answered, “Hello to you too, Remus. I’ll get straight to the point. Sirius has been missing for weeks and I only found out just recently. Now, the question is, why didn’t I hear about this from you weeks ago when it first happened? His life is very likely in danger and we’ve wasted valuable time just because you couldn’t be arsed to pick up some Floo powder or a quill to let me know.” Okay, so her reply might not have been as non-confrontational as she had wanted. She was understandably upset with the werewolf.

She watched, startled, as Remus’s eyes gained a glazed look as he tried to formulate a reply. Someone had messed with the werewolf’s mind, an especially skilled witch or wizard considering the difficulty inherent in such an undertaking. Shaking his head in canine-fashion, Remus’s voice mirrored Morgan’s own surprise and confusion as he replied, “Sirius has been missing for weeks? Are you sure? I could have sworn I saw him a few days ago. But I can’t be sure – the memory seems… cloudy?” Remus looked at her and seemed to finally catch on to what she was thinking, “Morgan, I’m not sure how, but I think my memory has been altered.”

Attention narrowed to laser-like focus, Morgan immediately questioned, “Who have you been around recently besides Dora and Teddy? Have you come in close contact with any strangers?”

“You know that I do research for my books inside the townhouse, Morgan,” he reflexively defended himself. “The last time I actually pried myself away from my research long enough to leave the house was when we dropped off Teddy at King’s Cross,” he added, voice distant.

Morgan takes a moment to think before responding, “Whoever was able to alter your mind was obviously powerful and adept at Mind Magics. Making it through the crowds at King’s Cross to catch you with a well-placed curse, unnoticed, would probably be well within this person’s capabilities. The worrying thing about this whole situation is the obvious collaboration between whoever abducted Sirius and your unknown assailant. That’s not even mentioning the amount of power it would take for the curse to still be active months after the initial casting.”

Remus thought over Morgan’s response while looking at somewhere to the right of the Floo, his sensitive hearing likely picking up his wife’s footsteps. Hurriedly speaking, he asked, “I would rather not worry Dora with this right now. I haven’t told her yet, but she’s pregnant again. I just heard the heartbeat for the first time a few days ago.”

Morgan sighed, but against her better judgement agreed to Remus’s request. “Only on the condition that as soon as you disconnect from this call, you Floo directly to Gringotts and request a full scan and get any subsequent treatments they recommend in order to flush this foreign magic out of your mind and body.” Seeing that he was winding up to argue with her and deciding to by-pass the issue entirely, she held out her hand to summon her book of bank slips. Writing a quick note to her account manager explaining the circumstances, she shoved the slip through the Floo, voice lowered in seriousness as she replied, “Look, Remus – regardless of my feelings toward you, you are my father’s closest friend. Not to mention you are part of my family, distant or not. Just ask for the Black account manager and hand him this slip - everything will be charged to my vault.”

Looking at Morgan with a mix of gratefulness and some embarrassment, Remus shakily took the slip. “You know that I wouldn’t even consider taking your money unless this was serious Morgan. But thank you all the same. I know I’ve done nothing to endear myself to you, but I hope you know how much I appreciate this. I’m appalled that I let someone mess with my mind and didn’t notice it. I feel violated. I don’t want to put Dora or the baby in any danger, miniscule as the chance may be.”

She felt her expression soften at the heartfelt sincerity of the reply. Knowing that Remus would probably want to get to Gringotts as soon as possible, she wrapped up the conversation, “Of course, Remus. Now, get to Gringotts already.” She felt a smidge of guilt about lying, but she couldn’t exactly tell him that she was currently preparing to go rescue her erstwhile father, “I’ll contact some people and let you know if I hear anything about Sirius, okay?”

Morgan disconnected her Floo for the last time that day after hearing Remus’s acknowledgement. She checked the time and cursed – she would have to rush if she wanted to start her ritual before the full moon rose – she had spent more time on the Floo than she had anticipated. She quickly grabbed the items she had gathered earlier and waved her hand down her body to send her clothes to the hamper – one didn’t conduct a ritual while clothed after all – and apparated to the base of the biggest tree on her property.

Located near the pond, the tree offered a clear view of the small body of water while also still enclosing her in the copse of oaks and elms that were on her property. After setting her small batch of herbs and sprigs of wood on the ground, she waved her hand once again, this time to create individual Bluebell lights that floated around her and softly illuminated the area. Morgan looked up and saw that the moon was starting to rise, so she rapidly sunk into the meditative trance needed to begin all rituals. After an indeterminate amount of time during which she mentally prioritized what she wished to ask of magic during the full moon ritual, she then took the ancient bronze ritual knife and made a shallow incision on her forearm, letting the blood drip over her offerings of herbs and wood. As each drop of blood made contact with her offerings, the atmosphere became increasingly charged. She knew it was a combination of the magic from the ritual and her own magic meeting and joining together to achieve a common purpose and she reveled in it – already feeling calmer and more centered. She focused on her upcoming task – saving her father, rescuing his team, getting to and from Dallas unharmed and undiscovered.

She felt herself sink into the magic – letting it calm her and remove all of the apprehension and fear that had been a constant presence since she heard about Sirius’s disappearance. She didn’t know how long she knelt before the giant oak tree, basking in the presence of magic in its rawest form, but she was distantly aware of the passage of time interrupted only by a soft knock at her perimeter wards. She hissed to Fern absently, letting her know not to attack their visitor, knowing her snakey friend would be able to hear her from anywhere on the property. She knew it would take a few minutes for her visitor to make their way from the gate to her current location, so Morgan let herself once again be lost in the ebbs and flows of the ritual magic, completely releasing the tight reign she kept her own magic under. Time lost all meaning when she was deeply connected to the earth and her own magic like this. She wished she were able to let her magic have the free reign it so desired, but it tended to be electrifying and had the unfortunate effect of making the area around her look like a hurricane had recently come through.

The sound of footsteps halting behind her followed by a low intake of breath alerted Morgan that her visitor had just taken notice of her. Feeling the magic of the person behind her, she noted with surprise that it was Sheriff Northman. Now, what reason did he have for coming all the way from Fangtasia tonight of all nights? Remembering Pam's message from a few days ago, she quickly discarded that errant thought that he had anything to do with her father’s disappearance – she wasn’t quite to Mad-Eye levels of paranoia yet but give her a few more decades and she’d be well on her way. Figuring she’d given Mr. Northman enough time to get over the shock of finding her naked and the area steeped in Old Magic, she quickly rose, offhandedly waving her hand over her body to materialize a robe for proprieties sake. Magical people, particularly the Old Families, may have a casual stance on nudity, but that was no excuse for assuming the same of others.

She felt energized, like she had just touched a live wire – she could barely contain her magic to a comfortable level. Morgan could tell that the vampire Sheriff recognized something was a little _more_ about her – aside from finding her naked in front of the tree doing obviously magical things, that is. She couldn’t really get her mouth to start working, still a little high from the heavy magic in the air and in her veins, so she stared at the vampire hoping he got the unspoken prompt to begin explaining what exactly he was doing at her house.

Watching Eric Northman’s emotions play out over his face was something she didn’t think many others had gotten to see over the years. She tried to hide her amusement when he looked increasingly more uncomfortable. He finally got his act together enough to breach the silence between them.

**Eric POV**

After a moment of her just staring at him with too-bright-too-green eyes, Eric finally couldn’t help breaking the impromptu stare-off they had entered, gazing to the tree that was the focus of whatever he just witnessed, and asked in a slightly sarcastic voice, “So, I’m guessing you didn’t get my message? Or is it normal for mages to greet their guests in the nude? If so, that’s a cultural difference I think I could get used to.”

Even though the mage’s face didn’t move, Eric could tell that she was amused from the laughter in her odd eyes. With only the barest traces of amusement in her voice, likely only evident to him thanks to his supernatural hearing, she quickly fired back, “I did not receive any message you may have sent – as you can see, I’ve been a little preoccupied for the past,” she made a motion with her hand and he could see the faint outline of numbers floating the air, “four hours.” She waved her hand through the floating numbers, making them dissipate into the muggy Louisiana night. Returning her gaze to Eric, she continued, “Now, what reason could a vampire Sheriff have for coming to visit little old me? You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little short on the pleasantries tonight. Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m running on a tight schedule tonight.”

He gave her a considering look as he thought over her reply. Finally recognizing the tenseness of her frame as anticipation, he wondered what exactly this woman was in a hurry to do. He decided to stall a little bit by prying, keeping him here longer and trying to unravel a little bit of the mystery that surrounded this woman, “Off in a hurry, Ms. Potter-Black? Anything the resident vampire Sheriff should be aware of?”

The mage gave him a look that conveyed his tricks were just that – tricks – and she wasn’t amused. She tersely replied, “No, this is something that does not concern you in your capacity as the Authority in the Area, Mr. Northman. It’s more of a personal issue.”

“And the obviously magical, well, whatever is was, that I seem to have interrupted? I’ve never seen anything like it in my considerable lifetime – I’ll admit I’m curious,” he couldn’t help but ask.

She seemed to weigh her words before speaking, likely picking and choosing just how much, exactly, to reveal to him. Vampires could be distrustful of outsiders, but, as he’d learned over the centuries, they had nothing on the ingrained paranoia present in magicals. Might be because of the whole thou-shalt-not-suffer-a-witch thing that seemed popular in Middle Aged Christendom – the threat of you and your family being burned alive tended to leave a mark on a community, generations ago or not. Seeming to come to a decision, she spoke, “It was a blood ritual. Done on the full or new moons they grant a sense of peace or purpose depending on the practitioner. I needed a bit of both tonight.”

Against his better judgement, he could feel his expression soften at the admission. He asked with some concern, “Anything serious? I wasn’t just talking out of my ass when I offered my assistance in an official capacity.”

She looked at him like his answer hadn’t landed on whatever trajectory she envisioned the conversation was following, “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a bit tougher than I look. It really is a personal issue. However, like I said earlier, I am running on a bit of a schedule and I don’t think you came all this way just to make conversation. What were you hoping to talk to me about, Mr. Northman?”

Disappointed, but unsurprised by her recalcitrant reply, he answered, “Well, I came to the realization that having a mage in my Area is a bit of an unexpected plus. I was wondering if were interested in warding a space for me. My office at Fangtasia to be specific.”

Her face had darkened as he spoke his first sentence but lightened considerably when he quickly explained what is was that he was asking of her. She looked at him for a long moment – probably trying to read his face and guess his intentions – before she spoke, “You do remember that I prefer information as payment. Are you sure what you’re asking me to do is worth it? I know how reluctant vampires can be about sharing information with others outside of their bloodline.”

 _Yes_ , he thought, _it was worth it_ , if only because it would give him more time to talk to the mage and try to figure out why exactly whenever he was around her, he ended up off-balance and shocked. The mystery of it all was driving him crazy. “The protection you could secure for my working space is probably worth whatever information I end up giving you,” he dismissed her concerns, “But it seems like you have places to be other than Fangtasia.”

“Well, yes,” she answered. She seemed to think something over before adding, “How about I get in touch with you after my business in Texas is finished and we can work out your request, Sheriff Northman?”

 _Texas?_ he thought. _What a coincidence._ Out loud, Eric said, “Well, that’s better than a flat out ‘no’. Looks like I’ll have to take what I can get.”

“Seems that you will, Sheriff Northman,” she added, amused. “Now, not that you aren’t pleasant company, but I do have things to do and places to be.”

“Off course,” he said, once again wondering what exactly she needed to do that had her so worked up. “Let me at least walk with you back to your house,” he requested, adding with a smug grin and a sarcastic voice, “There’s all kinds of monsters that go bump in the night in this area.”

Finally, he thought, a break in her composure. He watched, satisfied, as she rolled her eyes while before answering him, “Yes, and the magic I wield is just a parlor trick. However, I guess I can humor you.”

As they made their way out of the tree line towards the mage’s house, Eric broke the comfortable silence that had enveloped them, “So, when can I expect to hear from you, Ms. Potter-Black?”

“I would say sometime between one and two weeks from now,” she answered. She did another wave of her arm and he was slightly started to see her phone appear in her hand as well as a black backpack at her feet. When he finally moved his eyes from the new additions, he also realized that she was no longer in the green robe that left delightfully little to the imagination, but covered in tight, but sensible, black pants, military grade boots, and a thick long-sleeved shirt. Curious clothes for Texas, even in November, he thought. Eric was brought out of his musings by her voice, “This is where I’ll be leaving you, Sheriff Northman, I’m sure you remember the way out?”

Before he had the chance to reply, she had already popped away – apparition, he vaguely remembered the preferred method of traveling for witches or wizards being called. He was disappointed that, once again, he was denied the answers he had been searching for. Shooting a quick text to Godric to let him know that he may have be having a mage visiting his Area shortly (he shuddered to think of his Maker’s reaction if Eric hadn’t warned him and he ever found out that Eric was aware that she would be in Texas), he decided that the next time he was in Ms. Potter-Black’s company, he _would_ get his answers. She would be in his house, so to speak.

**Morgan POV**

As Morgan suddenly appeared in an apartment in Dallas (decorated expensively in sparse minimalist style that seemed to be in fashion these days), she thought that this may be the first time she was thankful for the Black’s sense of paranoia that had caused them to set up living arrangements in every region of both Europe and the Americas. She tried not to think too much over the coincidence that there just happened to be a Black property in the city that was the last known location of her father and his team. She was glad to put a few hundred miles between her and Sheriff Northman. Her magic, previously calm if a bit energized from the ritual, seemed to almost want to jump on him. It had been difficult even standing in his presence when all her magic wanted to do was cuddle him like an oversized plushy. She laughed out loud at the image of the nearly two-meter-tall vampire being cuddled like a toy. She didn’t think that Mr. Northman would find it as amusing as she did.

She let her thoughts drift to the vampire that had paid her an unexpected visit as she looked at her phone, absent mindedly reading the text he had said he sent. He was entirely too good-looking, she realized. She wondered why she only just now realized it – it wasn’t the first time she had seen him after all, and with looks like he had, it was surprising that it took so long for her to notice. Morgan guessed that she was a little too preoccupied with the way her magic acted around him. It was similar, but much more intense, than the way it had acted around Tom the first few times she met him. That thought worried her – her magic’s reaction to Tom was caused by the piece of his soul carried, so nestled and entangled with her own that it was suicide to remove it to another container. If being so near to a piece of what her magic recognized as an extension of herself had caused a reaction with her magic that was less forceful than when she had first locked eyes with the vampire, she had no idea what could be causing her reaction to Eric Northman.

She honestly wished she had more time to devote to figuring out this riddle – her magic was her foremost guiding force in life, she knew better than to ignore such developments – but she had a father to rescue, not to mention the Unspeakables that were still alive. She laughed at the idea of her charging in on a white horse to save her father, princess dress and all. Sirius would probably find it funny as well, she thought, frowning to herself. Morgan suddenly realized she hadn’t seen her father in months and missed him all the more for it.

Her last thought cemented an action she had only briefly considered taking. Opening up the browser on her phone, she quickly looked up the vampire authority in Dallas – Godric, looked like Tom was correct as always – and sent a quick request, marked urgent, through his web page to speak with him about the coven of necromancers in his Area. She didn’t fancy filling in another vampire on even her more innocuous abilities but needs must, and all that. The picture that Tom had painted of the vampire put her mind somewhat at ease. Any praise from Tom, and by extension the European Vampire Council, was high praise indeed. Morgan only hoped this Godric’s reputation was well earned.

Hearing her phone beep, Morgan was surprised to see that she had already gotten a response from whomever was in charge of making the Sheriff’s appointments. She was even more surprised when she saw that they had made time to see her within the hour. Looked like it was a slow night for the supernatural community in Dallas. Not sure whether to take the prompt meeting as a good or bad omen, she checked herself over to make sure that she was appropriate for a meeting at a vampire nest. She had noticed that this Sheriff took meetings at, what she assumed, was either his home or a communal nest instead of a place of business like Sheriff Northman. She felt almost naked without taking her backpack of ‘treats’ and with only her ever-present silver knife strapped to her thigh (smothered in a number of concealment and notice-me-nots in order to prevent it from showing through her snug trousers). However, she didn’t think that taking a proverbial bag of the True Death into a vampire nest would endear her to them – quite the opposite, in fact.

Giving herself one last once over, deciding that her attire was as good as it was going to get, she popped out of the apartment and into an alley about 15 minutes walking distance from the Sheriff’s home. She would need the time to think over how she was going to approach this meeting.


	4. MEMORIES AND SHERIFFS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries in any way. If I did, I sure as heck wouldn’t be writing fanfiction, lol. The characters in this story belong to their respective authors and creators. This is their sandbox – I’m just playing in it.
> 
> Author’s Note: Hello lovelies <3\. This chapter we finally get to meet Godric and get to know a bit of his altered past. Again, conversations are super hard for me, so I hope the flow of their dialogue isn’t as awkward as it seemed when I was writing this. This chapter is quite a bit longer than the previous three, which is why it took me almost a month to upload it (not to mention the five uni courses I’m taking -eek). I only gave it a cursory look through after I finished this monster chapter, so that, combined with the fact that I have no beta, definitely means there are going to be some errors. Bear with me – I’ll probably go over the chapter later today and edit it more thoroughly. I just wanted to get this posted for ya’ll ASAP. Thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, and left comments and kudos on this story – ya’ll are great! Reading reviews & comments super inspiring and motivating. Enjoy Chapter 4!

** CHAPTER FOUR: MEMORIES AND SHERIFFS **

**Godric POV**

Godric felt the urge to sigh as Isabelle lightly shut the door to his office. He tried to push the feeling of boredom away – he still had a full night of appointments to get through and it wouldn’t do for him to be so obviously disinterested, no matter how he really felt. If he was honest with himself, and he was hardly anything but these days, boredom was the only thing he had felt the past two centuries - only interrupted by brief surges of guilt when he was being especially maudlin.

He had lived a very long life, quite a bit longer than most who knew him had any idea of. There were perhaps less than five vampires still alive who had known him in his youth. Most days, Godric felt ancient, barely attached to the world he had walked for over three millennia. At first, he had blamed the detachment on his job at the time. He had been working with the Authority’s enforcement branch for around two thousand years. They had found him when he was young and still trying to blend in – migrating from tribe to tribe through the European continent, always moving on when they grew suspicious of his nocturnal ways or ever-young face.

Not having a maker didn’t exactly prepare for life as a vampire, so his first five hundred years or so was chock full of trial-and-error. Having nothing better to do, or any vampires to travel with, he had tried his best to make his way back to his village. Never having travelled very far from his tribe’s land, Godric had been unable to find a way back to his homeland for many years. By the time he had made it back, his small tribe had been over run and absorbed by the neighboring people. In hindsight, it was probably for the best he was delayed, and eventually unsuccessful, in making his way back home. His blood lust during those first few decades would have almost guaranteed and accident. He could barely fathom the guilt he would have felt from the death of any of his human family – how much it would weigh on his already over-burdened conscious.

After failing to reconnect with anything or anyone from his human life, Godric had been furious. He had slaughtered the people who had then inhabited his former village – seeing them only as invaders and murderers. It was the first time he had lost himself in his rage, but far from the last. After he snapped out of his blood lust, Godric was shocked at what he had done – he still wasn’t familiar with the full extent of his new vampiric abilities yet, so he was quite surprised at the speed with which he had dispatched the entire population of the small settlement.

Finally coming to terms that he was something _other_ – something closer to the demons and monsters his tribe spoke of in whispers over the fire late at night than a man – Godric had started to systematically test the limits of his new body. He had lost his sense of time during that period, consumed with pushing his body past any logical boundaries he may have had before waking up into this undead life. Godric wouldn’t realize until a millennium later, but during that period, he had gained abilities unknown to manifest in vampires until they were considered ancients in their own right – he had attained them while still a considerably young vampire, somewhere around 500 years old. By the end of his little experiment, Godric could fly, scent animals and humans upwards of 3 days travelling vampire-speed, control his blood lust with an iron will, and run faster than most his age.

However, his favorite discovery was actually more of a rediscovery of sorts. His people were deeply connected to the water – his tribal markings were only a small reminder of how centered his human life was on the ocean and rivers that surrounded his settlement. It went past the normal pagan worshipping of the time and often crossed the line into the supernatural itself, though he hadn’t known it at the time. After traveling for a few centuries, Godric finally had a few names to put to what exactly the more talented people in his tribe would have been called – shamans and druids. They weren’t magicals in the same sense that today’s witches and wizards were – the land’s magic was still too raw, too untamed. It would take be another thousand years after he was turned that the first true witches and wizards, as defined by modern terms, started being born. Godric preferred his people’s way of practicing – communing with the water, being respectful of it, not taking more than what you could return, and a million other small ways that tied his people to the sea and land.

He had been so scared that his ability to connect with the sea was lost to him upon waking in this new life, so he had avoided trying out any of the small skills he had learnt before his changing. Godric had traveled far in-land, staying in villages cut off from large water sources, so far had he gone in trying to put off what he thought was an inevitable heart break – just another piece of his human life thought beyond his reach.

Eventually, Godric had decided the anxiety over the uncertainty was worse than the pain knowing would bring. He travelled back to the land where his village once stood, a small peninsula bracketed by the modern-day North Sea. For hours or weeks, Godric had no idea how long he stood there – calf deep in the water, sheltered from the sun in a cave by the shoreline, praying to gods he wasn’t certain he believed in any longer. Once he had finally gathered enough courage to see once and for all whether his most precious gift had truly abandoned him, he opened his eyes and, for the first time in his undead life, he wept. Tears of blood clouded his vision as he looked down and saw the very same water serpent that was etched along his spine, bobbing around his calves. A sign from his gods, he was convinced – a mark of acceptance, of hope, of home.

He fell to his knees and carefully cradled the dark water snake in his arms, ecstatic. It was the first time he had been able to be so close to an animal since his time as a human, never mind being able to hold and touch one. Godric had knelt there, playing with the large snake, letting the curious thing wind itself across his cool body until his thirst finally caught up with him.

Unfortunately, the wonder of the encounter had slowly left him. While more aware of his new nature, Godric was at a loss at what to do with the seemingly unending expanse of time in front of him. The loneliness of never having met another of his kind also weighed upon him quite heavily. His newly rediscovered ability only just kept his depression at tolerable levels, but he desired companionship, conversation - things his rediscovered connection to the waters just couldn’t give him.

He eventually went back to wandering from village to village, this time not avoiding coastal settlements.

After seasons of just going through the motions, feeding and dying for the day over and over in an unending cycle, Godric finally came across one of his own kind on a particularly stormy night. He was sitting on a cliff, observing the stormy waves break against the mountain side, when he suddenly felt he was being observed. His watcher had known when Godric became aware of his presence, coming out of wherever he had been watching the younger vampire from and quickly stating that he meant no harm before introducing himself.

Even though Godric was distinctly weary of the older vampire and his unassumingly powerful presence, he was too excited at finally getting to meet another being like him, so, after getting over his skittishness, he and the newly named Rom got acquainted. After a series of conversations, which over time, his own participation in them went from hesitant to enthusiastic, Godric came to be aware of just how much of an oddity he was when compared to the average vampire. The fact that he had survived so long without his Maker to guide was a first, according to Rom. The older vampire also explained that his Maker’s absence may very well have been the cause of Godric’s listlessness and despondency – the bond between Maker and Child had only just been created before it was suddenly destroyed, quite forcefully. Said bond was one of the only things that usually kept the newly made Child from losing itself in the madness that was a newborn’s bloodlust and increased sensory input.

Nights talking and getting to know both Rom and his new species better eventually grew into moon turns and seasons in each other’s company before Rom finally told him about the power structure of their society. Godric, having known nothing except leadership entrusted to a chieftain or elder, was quite perplexed with the idea of an authority structure spanning an entire race of beings. Rom was quite indulgent with him, answering any and all questions the younger vampire had about his new world order. Eventually, Rom had confessed that he himself held somewhat of a position of authority in their society and, by that point intimately aware of the loneliness Godric had harbored, offered for him to come along with him when he inevitably made his way back home instead of parting with his new friend.

After mulling it over for exactly no time at all, Godric had unequivocally agreed to accompany Rom back to Egypt, the then-capital-of-sorts for anything supernatural.

A season of travelling later, Godric and his new friend – mentor, really, but Godric wasn’t ready to admit it quite yet – made it to the bustling streets and crowded markets that made up Egypt at the time. Enamored with the advances of humans and vampires alike, he had spent many weeks absently wandering through the metropolis, taking in everything he had missed while he had been, admittedly, hiding away in the farthest reaches of the only land he had known – absorbing and learning just about all he could get his undead hands on all the while.

Eventually, as was becoming a habit with Godric, he grew bored of the busy life inherent to such a place as Egypt. His first and only friend could apparently see the wanderlust apparent in Godric, because Rom had suddenly offered him a job that would routinely take him away from the city for long periods of time. Unsure about being what was essentially an enforcer for the rulers of his race, he had hesitated, but ultimately trusted his friend’s promise that it would mostly be intelligence gathering and that at any time he wanted to stop, no repercussions would follow.

After completing the first few jobs he was given, any fears Godric had of being in too far over his head had been well and truly vanquished. The ability to travel often and interact with more of his own kind, all the while learning the extent of his capabilities when threatened by the odd vampire or were, gave Godric a sense of contentment that had been horribly absent since his second life had started. Not to mention it gave him the ability to exercise and nurture his connection to the waters outside of all the eyes and ears that were ever-present in the hub of the supernatural world. New friend or not, Godric knew well and truly how odd he was compared to others of his age – he didn’t survive without any guidance in this new life without having a deeply ingrained sense of caution and finely honed instincts.

Godric steadily rose through the hierarchy of what eventually evolved into the enforcement arm of the Authority. At that point, he had no idea how old he was, but he knew that his rapid advancement was just one more oddity that was increasingly singling him out. Discomfited with the attention he was starting to receive, Godric had volunteered for an assignment that was insanely high risk – even for nearly-indestructible beings such as vampires. The fact that it would take essentially giving up one’s previous identity, entrusting their life to witches, and not being able to contact any vampire or supernatural for the duration didn’t exactly encourage anyone throwing themselves in line, either.

He couldn’t truly understand the risk inherent in such an endeavor when all he could see was an escape from the near-constant scrutiny he was subject to. Thus, Godric had enthusiastically accepted the suicidal information gathering and possible assassination mission, deaf to the concerns of his solitary friend.

After quietly disappearing from the night life in Egypt and subsequently making his way toward the emerging power on the northern continent, Godric soon found himself cautiously approaching the small family of witches who had occasionally been more open to cooperating with the vampire community. Stare-offs accompanied by terse greetings were exchanged and he suddenly found himself with a rune branded into his shoulder, untouched by the remarkable restorative properties inherent to vampires. The brand was one the group’s most recent advancements - a human-like visage and compulsion to only to be noticed by his target wrapped up in one agonizingly unique scar. While he wasn’t enough of a masochist to truly enjoy the experience, Godric was nonetheless impressed by the ingenuity of such a clever piece of magic.

What followed eventually became somewhat of a vampiric legend in addition to what was viewed as the commonly accepted story as to how Godric the Vampire came to be. It seemed a few members of the Authority had been a bit overzealous in hiding his pre-Rome history that very few vampires remembered that he had been an ancient in his own right before becoming undead for seemingly a second time. A twist of fate and bit of misdirection that both the Authority and he were all to glad to let lie – although the Authority’s reasons weren’t nearly as benign as Godric’s. He just wanted to go back to enforcing supernatural law with his new life’s only claim to fame being that he may-or-may-not-have killed his Maker while the Authority was never one to snub a bit of beneficial propaganda.

Once he returned to his normal job of information gathering and sometimes being the monster in the night for the actual monsters that roamed the world, Godric realized that those who were aware of his true identity were now paying even more attention to him, as if he had become their new favorite pastime to make the eons bearable for the truly ancient. His seemingly quick rise through the ranks (yet again) could have been passed off as being an extremely capable fighter, but he knew, from Rom’s own words, that he was being set up to take a leadership position over the rapidly filling western part of the northern continent.

Glad to be out of the cesspit that Egypt was becoming, filled with beings whom time had numbed down to pale imitations of their former selves, the seemingly 500-year old Godric set up shop on the western outskirts of the Roman Empire and stayed there longer than he had yet to stay in one place before. His false age seemed to give the more violent vampires the sense that his area was a safe place from which to flout the Authority, keeping him busy for more than a few decades.

He watched as one of the greatest civilizations to ever be was sacked (more than once), the Abrahamic god slowly replace the ancient pagan ones of the woods and streams, the governments of man advance, and the population of the humans grow denser even in his far-removed territory. Inevitably, he grew disillusioned with any and everything around him. Not even the one true friend that he had made during his undead life was able to ease his discontent.

Godric decided to go on a sabbatical of sorts. One day he rose for the night, told his second in command that she was in charge until he returned and then ran in no particular direction other than north for a good few weeks. After coming to the shoreline of the North Sea, he opted to try and swim across it in one go instead of suffering through the tiring process of attempting to find a ship that would be secure enough for him to spend his day death in.

Thus, began his next hundred or so years – the calendars were always changing, so he wasn’t exactly sure. He travelled extensively throughout the many islands that made up Britain, Ireland and eventually made his way to Scandinavia. Though most of his travels were quite boring, they were interspaced with enough odd happenings – generally of the magical variety – that the dull monotony of traveling alone was almost a reprieve. Meeting only the second mage he had ever encountered, and subsequently spending a few years in his company, was probably the most thrilling thing that had happened to Godric at that point – only the creation of his Child was more exciting to him.

When he had first felt the Maker’s Call, Godric just about keeled over in shock. Having just recently left his only-second-ever friend, probably for the very last time, he was understandably distracted while traveling through southern Scandinavia, slowly making his way back to his life as an enforcer. He was mid-run when it suddenly felt like someone had reached into his chest and _pulled_ , as if he was connected to the end of the rope and suddenly compelled to find what or who was yanking on him. Godric had defensively resisted the alarming tugging, both out of reflex and a sense of alarm. However, he had quickly found out that resisting the invisible jerking sensation just worsened the feeling.

He had cautiously followed whatever it was that was dragging him away from his route back home and only then felt the minor relief from having answered the magic, for what else could it be, that was apparently summoning him. Godric was barely able to stop instinctually following the pulling in order to find a secure place to die for the day, the Call was so consuming. He ran for countless nights, his mind a haze of disjointed thoughts, all a variation of _get there_ and _faster_.

Godric was only able to think clearly once the frantic pulling abruptly ceased. His mind only enjoyed the full range of its functionality for the approximate five seconds before he truly registered the scene in front of him. Finding humans in the midst of bloody, gory, battle was nothing new for him, however the completely incongruous feeling of shock when he first saw the hulking form of the largest human he had ever seen proceeding to make child’s play out of dispatching his foes had him feeling like it the first time he had ever seen the awe inspiring and horrific reality of the butchering of men.

He had no sense of time as he stood there, entranced by the sight of the blond giant gracefully swinging his large two-handed broadsword, but the sound of the object of his fascination’s pained filled roar startled him out of his unabashed staring. Godric was paralyzed, he knew then, with every part of his undead being, that this is what had dragged him across countries and mountains and seas.

As he watched the tall human’s compatriots set up and place their leader on a large funeral pyre, Godric’s conscious mind had finally caught on to what exactly was and had been happening to him. The Maker’s Call could’ve been a myth for all the vampire community at large believed in it, changing humans into vampires left and right. Godric, however, had the privilege of being in the confidence of more than one truly ancient vampire and knew that the Call was no myth, but something that was so rare and treasured that most ancients thought turning a Child without the Call present to be something akin to blasphemy for all that vampires had no true religion.

Having no real interest in turning a Child, Godric had all but put the hushed, reverent whispers describing the feeling out of his mind, content to focus on the present and doing his job. But in the darkest corners of his mind, the shadows that he was too weary to acknowledge, Godric longed for the companionship of someone who was unequivocally his – someone who he had no need to guess the motivations of or be weary of getting attached to lest he become entangled in the scheming or power struggles that seemed to be inherent in his race.

So, as his unbeating heart realized that this might be his one and only chance to attain its greatest desire, Godric systematically removed the obstacles between him and his future Child – namely any witnesses to his _otherness_ , the men feasting and drinking while waiting for their leader to leave this world atop his pyre. With a detached sense of cynicism, he realized that murdering who very well may be this man’s friends wasn’t exactly going to be doing him any favors when he inevitably asked the blond to join him in this unlife. There was nothing to be done about it though – he could hear how weak the warrior’s heart had gotten, chugging sluggishly.

He knew he must have looked like something straight out of a nightmare, covered in gore and blood, but the blond human just looked at him unflinchingly, vowing vengeance for his fallen people all the while bleeding out on his funeral pyre. Godric knew then that he had never been as grateful for anything as he was that he had followed the pull. This human would make a magnificent companion, he was sure.

Godric had been proven categorically correct. Over the next century or so, it became clear that if there was ever a human destined for this life, his progeny would be it. Eric took the loss of his humanity as if he were a child and someone had told him that a storm was coming and to get inside before he got soaked – with an offhand acknowledgement before thoroughly enjoying his changed circumstances. Eric danced in the rain that was his vampirism, diving headfirst into every new opportunity with a devil-may-care attitude that for all Godric scolded him for it, brought a small smile and a new sense of vitality to his Maker.

As loathe as he was to interrupt the content found by their new routine, Godric did have a territory to get back to and underlings to oversee. He and Eric slowly made their way back to the continent, taking the scenic route all the while, making time to stop and get acquainted with all manners of supernaturals in order to ease Eric more into his new expanded world order. Those were some of the best years of Godric’s life, he thought fondly, the aching sense of loneliness had finally eased with the turning of his Child and he was more than happy to bask in the happiness that Eric’s very presence seemed to instill in him.

So, for the next millennia, he and Eric stayed in what was coming to be known as Europe, splitting their time between traveling to oversee the territory the Maker was in charge of and exploring new lands and people to the Child’s joy. As time passed them by, not everything was ideal between the pair. With Eric’s increasing knowledge about the supernatural community, questions about his Maker’s life before turning him inevitably followed.

Honestly, Godric was unsure of why he couldn’t just get over whatever mental block that stopped him from giving Eric what he wanted, but every time he thought of those early, terribly lonely, blood soaked years his stomach would’ve turned if such a feeling was still possible for him. He couldn’t stand the thought of the one being who he was so comfortable with, the one person whose heart he could trust, looking at him as if he were some kind of oddity not unlike those ancient vampires whom he had turned away from in Egypt. Even though centuries had passed, and empires had risen and fallen since his stay there, Egypt and its inhabitants stuck with him, leaving a taste not unlike bad blood in the back of his mouth. He realized that the false identity he had assumed since that ill-thought mission in Rome had become his true face. Godric, the vampire that murdered his Maker, was much more preferable than the broken, lonely thing that Rom had found sitting on a cliff all those centuries ago.

What did that say about him, that he would rather see the distrust that came from being assumed to have killed his own Maker than deal with the attention and schemes his true self incited, Godric wondered.

At first, Eric just asked the odd question about his Maker’s past. But as time went on, Godric’s brush offs seemed to just encourage Eric to ask more and more. It grew from a curious enquiry here and there to fights over trust and transparency, spiraling out of control until there was suddenly a chasm of hurt and pain where before there was only love and companionship. His Child started staying away from their nest for longer periods of time under the guise that he was searching for the vampire who controlled the wolves that had murdered his human family, but was truly due to the fact that his Maker couldn’t, no wouldn’t, let down the last of the walls that separated them. Eric saw an imbalance of power where Godric could only see trying, and failing, to protect the bond between them that had given him a new sense of hope.

Things came to their inevitable end while they were in Nazi Germany during the second World War. Even though things had been tense between them for more than a century, Godric still couldn’t let his progeny, his only Child, go traipsing through war-torn Europe without him. The argument started out as a difference of opinion about the way Eric had been going about trying to find his family’s murderer but soon gave way to their commonly rehashed argument over the secrets he kept from his Child. While their conversation followed the well-worn trajectory of the many, many arguments over the topic, this time, however, Godric had underestimated his Child’s anger and lack of patience for his usual excuses.

Godric had parted from his child after that final argument, heart heavy with regrets and words unsaid between them. Not able to totally leave his Child to the mercy of the ofttimes merciless supernatural world, even with Eric having a millennia of life behind him, Godric had called in favors and used all of the connections he possessed in order to protect him from afar and stay informed about his moves through Europe. He had more than just his progeny to worry about – his Child having turned Pamela a century before only added to his sense of familial duty. When Eric was eventually pushed to take the position of Sheriff in the New World, Godric had waited a few years before quietly retiring from his enforcement job and requesting to retire to a position as the Authority of Dallas – near enough to his Child to stay attuned to his movements and be on hand for any emergencies.

Thus, began decades of dull monotony, every night an exercise in keeping his patience after listening to the petty concerns of the young vampires in his Area in a never-ending cycle. Godric wanted to blame the dull life of Sheriff-hood for causing his outlook on life to become progressively bleaker, but in the dark corners of his mind, he knew it wasn’t the cause.

Truthfully, he had been feeling detached and distanced from the world since right before he and his Child’s ill-fated trip to Germany. That sense of going through the motions without really feeling them in no small part contributed to the final argument he had had with Eric.

It was a gradual thing, this falling into not quite despair but something hauntingly close to it.

Eventually, weeks turned into months which quickly snowballed into years and then decades. Godric’s state of mind went from fleetingly detached to full blown depression with a quiet suddenness which would have alarmed him if Godric honestly gave a damn anymore, which he assuredly did not.

In his rare moments of clear headedness, usually brought on after slightly lowering the mental shields on his side of the bond with his Child, Godric was confused as to how this came about. While he had often felt moments of sadness, despair, and melancholy – especially in his early years – he was generally one of the more even-tempered vampires he knew. He had committed atrocities, according to human morality at least, but part of embracing vampirism was learning that there were few things left never done when one had an eternity of life looming before them. He went through periods where he was nothing less than a cruel, unfeeling monster, but then he also dedicated time to bettering his society and policing the truly deviant of their kind. Godric had long ago figured out that living an immortal life was essentially about balance – you couldn’t ever be one thing all of the time, for hundreds or thousands of years.

Before Germany, before losing Eric, Godric had always had a healthy mindset regarding his past actions. Now it seemed whatever emotional equilibrium he had unknowingly been at was suddenly absent and showing no signs of ever coming back. Suddenly, he was kept awake past dawn with the blood-soaked images of killing the humans that had inhabited what was once his tribe, playing over and over like some macabre record that somebody forgot to take the needle off of. Eventually, every murder, every feeding, every job he ever took as an enforcer became his sick daytime lullaby. Unable or just plain unwilling to shut everything out, Godric forced himself to watch his past come back to haunt him like some kind of twisted repentance that was due to the universe in the hope that if he was just sorry _enough_ , if he was just guilty _enough_ , he would finally be able to have a reprieve from the now-familiar horror that was his mind.

He knew, with the same detached feeling that permeated all of his waking moments, that his distraught behavior was changing him, making him weaker as he lost the will to even feed regularly – refusing to add more fuel for his mind to torture him with at dawn. Routinely getting the bleeds as he pushed himself to stay up later and later into the day just depleted what little strength his advanced age gifted him with. Every time he passed a mirror, a stranger far paler than he could ever recall being stared back at him with empty eyes. In his more lucid moments, Godric thought his countenance gave the term, ‘the walking dead,’ a whole new meaning.

This week had actually been, not quite a nice one – Godric didn’t really know how to have those anymore – but not a terrible one, at least. When he first felt the strong feeling of shock that managed to make its way through the thick, double sided shields both he and his Child kept on their bond, Godric had initially feared that Eric had finally royally messed up and got himself into a situation he couldn’t talk or kill his way out of. Even though Eric was essentially an ancient vampire in his own right, Godric knew his Child and his propensity for both mayhem and mischief didn’t exactly lend to trusting in his ability to be able to keep himself out of situations he couldn’t handle without Godric’s intervention for very long. Case in point being the more than just a few a times that his Child ran afoul of a witch or wizard’s wards – not to mention that one time in Bermuda around 100 years ago that they both swore never to bring up, _ever_.

The shock he felt through the bond actually roused some emotions that, while not positive, were decidedly not as far on the negative side of the spectrum as had been his norm for decades now. The following phone call explaining the surge of emotion and his Child’s newest resident had actually put Godric in the mood to actually quench his ever-ignored thirst and nearly demolish four donated bags of A+ blood.

As he sat, alone in his spartan office, Godric gave a passing thought to the fact that the mage who had caused his son to reach out to him twice in the same number of weeks would soon be coming to his nest. As far as coincidences went, he wasn’t sure what to think about this one. He had met exactly two mages in his not inconsiderable lifetime, and they were both so very different from each other that he had no true framework from which to predict how his next meeting would go. The only things both mages had in common was a propensity to be cantankerous bastards and an inclination to be tight lipped about any and everything concerning the way their magic functioned that frankly bordered on paranoia.

He considered what he knew about the supernatural community and their penchant for coveting powerful beings and things and thought that mages might just be correct in wanting to keep their cards close to their chests. 

As he distantly heard Isobel opening the front door to presumably let the mage in, he wondered if the woman in question would end up perplexing him as much as she did his Child. 

**Morgan POV**

As she stood under the covered porch, Morgan was immensely grateful for whatever gods-given bought of insightfulness (or maybe prescience) gave her the idea to do the ritual tonight. The large, two-story Preston Hollow house almost seemed designed to be intimidating in its austerity. In truth, it wasn’t the house that was causing Morgan’s sudden case of nerves, but instead the task before her.

She was fiercely independent as a rule, sometimes (mostly) to her detriment. A combination of growing up with her horrible relatives and her (rather rough) first two years in the magical world taught her from nearly the cradle to be both self-sufficient and cunning enough to take care of her most basic needs and safety. Turns out habits formed in those formative years really stick with a person because, for all the support and help her family – both blood and chosen – surrounded her with starting at 13 years old, her first instinct remained to take any and everything on alone. Over nearly two decades, and many, many, lectures, she had started to ignore those instincts and started relying on others, especially after a few too many times of getting in over her head because she didn’t have information that others had.

That personal growth was why she had actually gone through with stopping by the Dallas Sheriff’s house at her ex-husband’s suggestion. After working as a semi-Unspeakable and doing the odd job for the non-magical government agencies, she had truly come to realize how important any intelligence she could get her hands on was. It was often the difference between successful or failed mission. Morgan wasn’t going to chance the fate of both her father’s and his team’s lives just because she was a tad skittish about including the vampire authority in regarding her plans.

Tom wasn’t the only one who had managed to hear of the Dallas Sherriff’s reputation. Before she moved to the southern United States, Morgan had, of course, done some research into the more well-known supernaturals in the area, which definitely included the Area Sheriffs. Godric, commonly known as the Gaul, came from a time before family names were used commonly and was exceptionally difficult to get any concrete information on that went further back than the last century. Even what she did know about him was mostly hearsay – a fact that bothered both her and Blaise Zabini’s mother, whom she had called in a favor with in to get what little information she had in the first place.

There wasn’t an agreed upon date for when Godric lived as a human or when he was turned into a vampire. One of the only hints that Lady Zabini was able to uncover was that he was supposedly turned in Rome during the height of its power, but even that information was iffy at best and contradictory at worst.

Morgan had access to a veritable treasure trove of journals from members of various families both in extant and extinct. It was a small coincidence that she had read about a vampire in one of these ancient journals that may or may not have been Godric. The only identifiers in the journal were a pretty accurate description of the tattoos the ancient vampire was known to have. The journal wasn’t dated in any way that Morgan could truly rely on, but the writing and magic on it both gave her at least a 500-year period to guess from, and that journal more than likely predated the widely accepted time of Godric’s turning. However, Morgan also knew that tattoos, especially in the European tribes pre-dating Rome, were a very common thing for both men and women to have. The language the journal was written in didn’t have gender specific pronouns when describing the vampire, so she was hesitant to even consider that the two were one and the same.

Mysterious background or not, the information that Morgan did have on Godric all pointed to him being an efficient, if somewhat non-typical, vampire Sheriff.

She was brought out of her thoughts by the quiet sound of the large, dark, metal door in front of her swinging open on its hinges. A beautiful vampire with dark hair and dark eyes, around Morgan’s height, was standing in the doorway. She quickly looked Morgan up and down in a cursory glance and said, “Good evening. You must be Ms. James?”

Morgan nodded before replying aloud, “Yes, I am. I have an appointment to see the Sheriff in about ten minutes.”

The brunette vampire gave a quick nod of her own before moving aside to allow the door to open wider, a soundless invitation inside.

The two slipped into a few moments of companionable silence as they walked down the hallway, the only sounds being the click of the vampire’s tall heels and Morgan’s soft, booted footsteps. Morgan saw the unnamed vampire give her a few quick glances before she finally broke the silence, “Pardon my manners, my name is Isabelle and I’m Godric’s second-in-command for Area Nine.”

Morgan gave the vampire a small smile to let her know that no offense was taken, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isabelle.” Deciding to do a little bit of digging, she asked, “How long have you been working in this Area?”

“About 50 years. I spent most of my life between Spain and Portugal before deciding a change of scenery was needed and came to the New World. My Maker wasn’t exactly pleased but ended up contacting one of his old acquaintances who happened to be the recently appointed Dallas Sheriff and asked if he would take me on and ‘keep me out of trouble,’” the vampire quoted fondly.

She was surprised that the vampire had parted with as much information as she had. Morgan made a quick decision to push her luck a bit more, but as soon as she was preparing to open her mouth to question the talkative vampire further, the vampire stopped before a beautiful door made of light wood – apparently they had made it to their destination while making small talk.

“This is where I leave you. It was a pleasure meeting you Ms. James,” the vampire said in a soft voice, already turning toward another hallway leading away from the presumed office of the Sheriff. Turning around, she added, “Have a nice evening and I hope you enjoy your stay in Area Nine.”

Morgan watched the female vampire leave before mentally shaking herself. The nice, chatty vampire had thrown her off a bit, but she was here for a reason, after all.

She turned back towards the intricately carved door made out of a light wood – a beautiful pine, if her guess was correct. Morgan snorted quietly, pine wood for a vampire – particularly one who she had a hard time finding any information on – was quite apt. She wondered if this vampire had any knowledge of wand wood symbolism.

Taking a closer look at the door, she noticed that the painstaking etchings illustrated hundreds of individual scenes. She wished she had time to sit and get a good look at the odd piece of art. The door was one of the only departures from the austere architecture that was devoid of personalized touches. She rationalized that this was, perhaps, where the Sheriff spent most of his time and decided to have the door be an eye catcher.

Putting thoughts of pretty doors aside, Morgan finally knocked on the subject of her previous attentions. A quiet voice bid her to come in, so after taking a deep breath and mentally soothing what nerves she could feel even though she was Occluding, she turned the knob and entered the Sheriff’s office.

The first thing Morgan’s mind registered was that whatever interior designer decorated the rest of the house was definitely not responsible for the office in front of her. Everything was soft plush rugs and dark honeyed wood. The wainscoting matched the deep blue wallpaper with tiny designs on the top half of the walls. There was a fire going – a real, wood fire, not one of those new (awful) gas ones – in the beautiful stone fireplace located on the wall to her right. The wall opposite that was almost entirely taken up by small paintings, mixed and matched together to create a whole wall of collaged artwork.

Her eyes eventually turned forward and saw what was, arguably, the best part of the room. She had a thing for desks, she’d readily admit to it. She felt that you could learn a lot about a person by their desk – what it looked like, what they kept on it - a thousand other tiny things gave hints to the personality of the owner.

Echoing the door behind her, the desk was artfully crafted from pine. She couldn’t resist letting lose a curl of her magic to brush against the desk and she was delighted by what it told her. It was old and hand carved from a single tree. Whoever had made the desk had left an imprint of their joy and pride along the planes and notches in the woodwork. It was there, barely distinguishable, under the sense of stress and dispassion that was the owner’s more significant imprint.

Lost in her own admiration for the fine piece of craftsmanship in front of her, Morgan did a very stupid thing. Or, rather, she stupidly forgot to do something – reign her magic back in to settle in her body.

She could hear Snape calling her a dunderhead from half a world away.

Morgan’s breath caught as her magic unintentionally brushed the vampire quietly staring at her, seemingly content to let her examine his office. She finally looked at him and internally cursed as she met his stormy grey-blue eyes. What was it with her magic and its strange reactions to vampire Sheriffs?

She really wished that she had had time to do a little digging and find out, why, exactly, her magic wanted to crawl out of her and absolutely smother not one, but two vampires now. The fact that it didn’t react the same way around all vampires just made the puzzle more complex. She knew her life was somewhat of a cosmic joke to whatever-powers-that-be out there, but _really_? She thought by coming to the States, she would be leaving the mystery and intrigue that marked her life in Britain behind.

Mentally giving it up for a bad job, she broke both the weighted silence and the stare-off. Once again casting her eyes around the cozy office before asking the first question that popped into her head, “What is it with vampires and not liking the United States? Is there some kind of vampire-taboo or something?”

The corner of his mouth twitched before he answered in a soft, carrying voice, “Ah, I see Isabelle talked about how she came to be in my Area,” at her nod, he continued, “Most of the older vampires see North America as something not unlike how 19th century Americans saw the ‘Wild West,’ interesting, but not somewhere that most would want to stay for a considerable period of time.”

Deciding to continue being a snarky mage, because _why not?_ she followed up with another question, “Were those same older vampires in charge of the designations for each Area’s authority? Because, if they were, I’d have to give it to them for committing to the aesthetic.”

As the corners of his eyes just barely crinkled in amusement, she let her gaze sweep over the male vampire in front of her. It had taken her a while to notice how different he looked from a typical vampire, with her magic itching under her skin and all, but he was one of the only vampires she had met that truly looked _other_ – besides the pale skin tone that is. She didn’t know if it was the way he spoke or held himself or maybe even his ancient looking eyes, but no one could mistake this being as human.

Unlike the other vampire Sheriff that she had had a similar reaction to, this one was just on the shorter side of average for a man – standing a shade or two above her own 173 centimeters. He had dark brown hair and eyes that couldn’t decide between being grey or blue. Most would say that his light linen shirt and pants set was an odd choice in clothing, but Morgan came from a world where it was common for both men and women to wear what was essentially a dress with no underclothes. Consequently, his attire ranked very low on the ‘weird’ spectrum for her.

It was what she could just barely make out under the lightweight shirt that caught her attention. Large tattoos surrounded both biceps and his clavicle. Morgan was intrigued – she was aware that this vampire was known to have tattoos, but still, this was the first time she had actually been able to see any of the undead having them, even concealed as they were. She saw that one of the bicep tattoos wasn’t solid – instead made up of tiny, indistinct ones – and had the errant thought that she’d like to see it up close one, one day, without the barrier of his shirt hiding it from her sight.

Shaking off thoughts of tattooed vampires in dubious states of undress, Morgan focused her attention back to the strange vampire’s face. He seemed to be studying her and her admittedly strange attire just as much as she studied him.

When it seemed that both of them had finished inspecting the other, the Sheriff waved his hand indicating for her to take a seat. After Morgan got situated in the lovely blue wing-back chair, the vampire broke the silence by answering her sarcastic question, “For the most part, yes. A good amount of those ancients serve on the European Council, and thus, are somewhat responsible for setting up the American vampire system. Sentiments about ancients and their questionable naming choices aside, welcome to my nest, Ms. James. My name is Godric, the Sheriff of this Area.”

Morgan would never admit it, but she was somewhat entranced by the sound of his voice. It was soft yet carrying - full of authority without being overbearing – and sounded nearly as ancient as his eyes looked. It didn’t carry the cold undertones that Tom’s did when talking to anyone that wasn’t Alex or herself. It also lacked the playful and cocky quality that was present in the voice belonging to the other object of her frustration, Mr. Northman.

She was a little indecisive about how to go about informing him of why exactly she was there. She had already decided to go ahead and drop the alias – it would no doubt save her from a pissed off vampire later on. Question was, how exactly do you tell a vampire Sheriff that he has a coven of pests making trouble in his backyard and she was here to clean up the mess without stepping on any toes? Especially when those toes belong to an ancient, powerful, vampire Sheriff?

Being a mage, having quite a few years of first-hand experience living side-by-side with Britain’s (unknowingly) reigning Dark Lord, extensive career training, and an attitude that could be summed up as wholly unaffected by any and everything – probably due to the exposure of the chaos that was generally her life – had somewhat conditioned Morgan out of any nerves that would generally accompany possibly pissing off powerful people. She consciously didn’t think about how, when she was a teenager, before most of those circumstances would come to dictate her life, she tended to go out of her way to aggravate people who held any semblance of authority of her. When her adolescent antics were brought up – and they often were – Morgan tended to blame it on a double inheritance of Black madness and the Evans’ propensity be increasingly antagonistic with every breath they took.

So, she decided to do the Sheriff a small kindness before probably ruining his day, and started off by properly introducing herself, “Good evening, Sheriff. I’d like to clear up something before we really get into why I’ve made this appointment tonight. My true name Morgan Potter-Black. James is my middle name and I frequently use it as an alias. My name is rather recognizable across the Atlantic, so I tend to employ a bit of necessary subterfuge when I’m trying to get about without drawing attention.”

As she explained the necessity of her cloak-and-dagger routine, one of the vampire’s eyebrows had started a slow and steady trek up his forehead. She kept track of their ascent out of the corner of her eye, wondering just what it was about her explanation amused or irked the vampire – he was in possession of a solid poker face, so she couldn’t tell which it was quiet yet.

After the eyebrows-of-doom had finally come to a stop, Godric spoke, “I know of you, mage.”

Morgan must have looked as panicked as she felt, because _bloody hell, she wasn’t planning on revealing that, quirky magical reaction to yet another vampire or not_ , since he just gave her a look that conveyed he thought she was funny for even coming into his territory and trying to pull a fast one on him, by omission or otherwise. 

While she was internally categorizing escape routes and alternate ways to go about her mission without this uncomfortably knowledgeable vampire’s help, the subject of her unease seemed to disregard her inner turmoil and continued, “You have so many names – is it Morgan Potter? Or Lady Potter-Black-Gryffindor? Did you, perhaps, take your husband’s name and its now Morgan Ravenclaw? It’s been a long time since I’ve met a human so steeped in rumor and mystery and even longer since the last time I was in the company of a mage.”

His first few statements somewhat calmed Morgan’s freak-out – it wasn’t exactly classified knowledge that she had been married or even the names she used when her presence was needed in the Wizengamot. The entire European Vampire Council was passingly familiar with both her and Tom, and this vampire was most definitely old enough to possibly be aware of the Council’s dealings.

It was the Sheriff’s last sentence that brought all thought in Morgan’s mind to a halt. 

Ever since Morgan had learned what she was – down in the bowels of Salazar’s Chamber at 12 years old, dirty and underfed, but still having the energy to be pissed off at the world after yelling both Tom’s diary horcrux and a 1000 year old basilisk into submission, _because 16 year old boys were universally idiotic, only part of a soul or not, doubly so if they had giant, killer snakes to do their hormonal bidding_ – she had been ruthlessly looking for any kind of information on mages that wasn’t just hearsay and conjecture. Salazar’s parselscript journals only mentioned an ancestor of his having met a mage long before the Founder was even born.

According to the Salazar, his parselscript writings were just a translation of another ancient diary that was passed down from father to son in the Slytherin family. This translation of a first-hand source was the first and most complete information about mages that she had found yet. The squiggly writing in the ancient, worn diaries detailed the mage and his characteristics pretty well. Morgan had holed herself up in the study behind the main statue and got lost in Salazar’s description of a being who used magic as easily as breathing yet struggled to control it – just like her.

That journal had completely changed the trajectory of her life. Before she read it, Morgan still considered herself a _freak_ , her twelve-year-old mind not being able to completely ignore years of conditioning by her _loving_ relatives. After finishing that section, she knew that she wasn’t a freak of nature even amongst other witches and wizards, but that she was _more_ , she was something _other_ , and that there were other people like her. Even if the only one she had heard of lived over 1000 years ago, it was still more hope than she had had before reading Salazar’s journal.

She had gone through the last weeks of her second year in a daze, trying to internalize the complete shake up of her world view. After a few days of being locked inside Dudley’s second bedroom ( _for all that she slept there, it was never **hers** , nothing in that house was **ever** hers_), Morgan came to the realization that whatever hold the Dursleys had on vanished when the first time she read the word mage and felt the way it resonated with her very being.

What followed was a hasty conversation with the diary horcrux (not that she knew _what_ exactly that was at the time) about how to get to Diagon Alley, a bit of midnight lock-picking to liberate her school things, and an absolutely mad ride on the Knight Bus to one of the lesser known entrances to the magical shopping district.

She had booked a room at an inn that Tom had told her didn’t pry into their patron’s business (or, more importantly, ask about their ages or lack of guardian accompanying them) and spent the rest of the summer getting better acquainted with the world she had previously felt separate from after her introduction to it 2 years ago.

One of the first stops the newly-freed twelve-year-old Morgan had made was Gringotts – and dear Morgana, if that meeting wasn’t a revelation nearly on par with finding out she was a mage. After days of meetings interspaced with viciously uttered death threats - in Gobbledegook, English and Parseltongue – she immediately asked the goblins if it was possible for her to camp out in her vaults so that she could search through the thousands of books for any further hints about her unique inheritance.

She got what she guessed was a baffled look from one of the goblins in the room before they promptly shrugged and agreed after giving her a list of things she would need if she truly was going to go through with the inanity of spending weeks in a damp, dreary vault. One mad dash through Essential Ally and one goblin alert ward system set up for her use later, and the newfound mage got lost in three ancient families’ collections of rare and obscure books. 

Spending her summer going through literal mountains of books and finding _nothing_ had alerted Morgan to the scarcity of mages in history. Later, when she had access to the Slytherin, Gaunt, and Ravenclaw libraries, she would be disappointed once again. Even the Slytherin vault only had vague mentions of that long-dead ancestor’s anecdotes of which Salazar had translated.

So, for her to come across _anyone_ – vampire or not – who had any information at all about mages? Not to mention, if the Sheriff was to be believed, having _actually met one_? She felt like that American term – hitting the lottery – would be more than applicable at the moment. It was definitely enough to stop her half-formed plans on attempting the poorly thought out obliviate-and-escape attempt she had in mind after he revealed his knowledge of her being a mage.

Cursing her luck for what had to be the thousandth time that month, Morgan lamented that she was here on important business, important, time-sensitive business, which didn’t lend itself to letting her follow around the ancient vampire Sheriff like some kind of manic puppy, begging for any and all information about this mysterious mage he claimed to have met. 

She must have been staring at Godric for longer than she had thought, because the eyebrows-of-doom were making a rapid comeback.

Dredging up every last bit of Occlumency skill she possessed, Morgan struggled to say something that wasn’t _please tell me everything you know, **right now**_ , or _when, where and how did you meet a mage_? She was finally able to get out, “Let’s just skip the part where I pelt you with questions about what you just said, because, _dear Morgana_ , there’s a lot to unload there,” she wanted to scowl when his lips seemed to twitch in humor, but continued, “but I did request an urgent meeting for a reason, Sheriff.”

At the solemn tone of her voice, the vampire’s expression became serious, “Yes, of course,” he said replied while he finally took his own seat.

He gave her a long, unreadable look after he got settled before stating, “As you can probably understand, I’m quite interested in why exactly you requested a meeting tonight.”

Morgan allowed herself a small sigh, blowing the fringe of her bangs out of her face before answering, “Well, I’m not sure how to say this without possibly pissing you off, so I’ll get right to it. You have a problem in your Area, Sheriff. A hedge-witch coven of necromancers type of problem.”

Immediately, the vampire’s face closed off. Good news – he didn’t look angry, _yet_.

She barreled on through her explanation with all the grace of Dobby’s bludger from her ill-fated second year, “I honestly couldn’t care what happens in this Area, but that coven is suspected in the abduction of two high-level groups of operatives from both the American and British magical governments.”

If Morgan wasn’t mistaken, she thought she saw the vampire wince – barely, but still something. She just gave the Sheriff a look confirming that _yes, indeed_ , this was a problem.

He tilted his head while looking at her in consideration before decisively typing something at a supernatural speed on the desktop to the side of him. Glancing back toward Morgan as he typed, he said, “I know the coven you speak of. We’ve been collecting information on them since the uptick in supernatural disappearances began – around two years ago, actually.”

Seeming to be done with whatever he was doing on the computer, he stopped typing and turned his body to face Morgan once again then continued, “Before I get in to the history of this coven, might I ask how you came to be involved in all of this? What exactly is a mage who also happens to be both British aristocracy and somewhat of a celebrity doing chasing a coven of hedge-witches across the Atlantic?”

 _Fair point_ , Morgan thought. Still, she wasn’t exactly ready to lay all her cards on the table. Deciding to give him enough of a reason to continue giving her information without further exposing her personal stake in this, she waved her hand and slid over the identification she carried that marked her as a member of both MI5 and a consultant for the Unspeakables.

He took a short moment to glance at the documents before giving her a searching look. Seeming to come to a decision, he turned the monitor toward Morgan so that she was able to view whatever he had pulled up on the screen. While she started quickly reviewing the information packet, Godric started to speak once again, “This is a summary of the most pertinent information about the Dallas coven. Base of operation, frequented locales, members – both confirmed and suspected, and just about any other significant pieces of information we were able to cobble together.”

She hummed in acknowledgement as she started reading the list of locations where the coven was frequently reported being seen at. She was struck by a fit of deviousness and looked at the vampire in front of her slyly before suggesting, “How do you feel about joining me to do some on-the-ground intelligence gathering? This is your territory, anyway, so I would feel like I was intruding if you didn’t come with me.”

Godric seemed to notice the mischievous bent her mood had taken, giving her a bit of a side-eye before replying, “What do you have in mind?”

Morgan didn’t bother to conceal her Cheshire grin this time. From what she had observed from Godric, he seemed to be a tad up-tight, so really, it was her civic duty as a Black, forces of chaos that they are, to bring a little excitement into his life – she would eat her wand (well, one of them, anyway) if he had had any fun in the past year. Seeing the corners of his mouth tighten in what could only be exasperation as she just stared at him, grinning dementedly, admittedly, she finally asked, “These hedge-witches seem to frequent one place more often than the others – ever heard of a place called Inwood Tavern?”

The vampire looked a tad bit weary as he gave a small nod. Morgan’s smile only grew even bigger (and maybe a touch sadistic) when she saw this.

“Brilliant,” she said, “let’s go scope the place out, Sheriff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note, part two: I’ve done a lot of research so far on wood meanings and the symbolism inherent in using particular woods for certain things. I loved the idea of using a pine door to start Morgan’s journey into our favorite, mysterious vampire’s life. For this particular wood in this chapter, I used Pottermore’s Wandlore page as I found that it fit Godric perfectly – because, ya know, mysterious loner, semi-immortal vamp and all. Not to mention it’s a bit of hint to what will be going on in later chapters *evil cackling*. 
> 
> Pine - The straight-grained pine wand always chooses an independent, individual master who may be perceived as a loner, intriguing and perhaps mysterious. Pine wands enjoy being used creatively, and unlike some others, will adapt unprotestingly to new methods and spells. Many wandmakers insist that pine wands are able to detect, and perform best for, owners who are destined for long lives, and I can confirm this in as much as I have never personally known the master of a pine wand to die young. The pine wand is one of those that is most sensitive to non-verbal magic.
> 
> Also – fun fact – Inwood Tavern is actually a bar in Dallas, Texas! It’s the oldest continually-operating bar in the area!


	5. Dancing and Drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries in any way. If I did, I sure as heck wouldn’t be writing fanfiction, lol. The characters in this story belong to their respective authors and creators. This is their sandbox – I’m just playing in it.
> 
> Author’s Note: Uh, hi? *runs and hides after posting this chapter nearly a year after my last update.* So, college kicked my butt these last few semesters, along with the whole apocalypse thing, you know, with the fires and the maybe-WW3, and the floods, the UFOs, the demise of American democracy by President Cheeto, and the whole plague thing. Mental health is a thing that must be protected, even if that means not updating your fics in order to make sure you get five As for the semester and get everything squared away so you can graduate in December (no, I’m not freaking out about having to be a real adult, what do you mean?) It’s almost November and this chapter is short but I had to get it out after so long. So, here’s your chapter and I hope y’all love it and leave reviews/kudos/comments/whatever you want. Also, optional sound track for this chapter: Patterns by Tony Iommi featuring Serj Tankian (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCm9p9cXF34).

** CHAPTER FIVE: DANCING AND DRINKS  **

**Godric POV**

Godric looked at the woman in front of him, smiling eerily, and felt what might have been regret over his thoughtless agreement to accompany her to this bar. It had nothing to do with the potential for danger due to the hedge witches, he just recognized the tilt of her lip and the hitch of her brow. Miss Potter-Black’s expression bore a remarkable resemblance to his own Child’s whenever he hatched a plan that promised havoc to swiftly follow.

He wasn’t even sure why he agreed to go with the mage. Oh, she had a perfectly suitable reason for asking for his company, but honestly, sending a mage after a coven of hedge-witches, even necromantic hedge-witches, was already overkill; adding an ancient vampire (especially _him_ of all things) was bordering on obscene.

It had _nothing_ to do with the fact he was curious about the striking woman that interrupted the monotony of his night with the promise to feel or do _something_ , anything other than sit here and go through paperwork for yet another countless night in a row. Nothing at all.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when the brunette in question suddenly spoke after giving him a critical once-over, yet again, “We’ll have to do something about your outfit. No offense, Sheriff, but the whole island-linen look isn’t really conducive to trying to blend in with the crowd at the place we’ll be going to.”

How long had it been since someone had the nerve to disparage his attire? Despite his half-hearted efforts to maintain his usual façade of perpetual serenity, his amusement came through in his voice when he said, “I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you, but the entirety of my wardrobe contains similar outfits.”

“No matter,” she said, shaking her head, “we haven’t really the time for a conventional outfit change, anyway. Now, hold still, this might feel a bit… breezy.”

Somewhat alarmed, he realized what she meant half a second before she actually did it. He froze as he felt his clothes change, his monochromatic linen suit materializing into comfortable cotton and (distinctly less comfortable) leather. He took in the smell of her magic absently. Ozone, he thought, overlaying something else that he didn’t have the time to recognize before it was gone, while simultaneously marveling over her lack of concern while using magic on others and being amused at her presumption.

He looked down at his outfit and leveled the mage with a _look_ , before saying lightly, “I know you’ve been around vampires before – shouldn’t you have learned that surprising one, especially by using magic on them, isn’t the best idea, Ms. Potter-Black?”

She looked rather unconcerned when she replied, “We’re on a bit of a schedule if you hadn’t noticed, Sheriff. You look old enough to think before reacting, anyhow.”

He wanted to shake his head at her careless attitude. While he was certain she could protect herself, she seemed to be diving towards situations where she would have to do so headfirst. Regardless, she was correct. He didn’t know whether to be offended by the presumption, being read so easily, or the fact that he wasn’t really offended at all. He realized he was quite bemused actually.

“Speaking of that schedule,” she continued, “we should probably leave now – you do have a car here, correct?”

“I do,” he answered, “however, it seems a bit unfair that I have to go dressed as if I’m going through some sort of identity crisis, what with the leather and all, are you really going to go looking like you’re dressed for a hike in the woods?” He had to ask; he wasn’t exactly comfortable in the leather. However, it was better than those gods-damned wigs that were popular centuries ago in Europe, at the very least.

Surprised by his question, she looked down at herself, frowning before waving her hand. Once again, the smell of ozone was present. Yet, this time, he smelled the undertones of some kind of freshly cut wood and the salty-cold scent of the sea – his surprise must have caused him to overlook the strange smell of her magic earlier when he was subjected to the mage’s wardrobe of choice for himself.

He found it odd that he was even able to smell her magic at all. It wasn’t something inherent to her being a mage, as he couldn’t smell the magic of the last mage he met, only sense its presence like that of any other magic from a witch or wizard. Maybe it had something to do with his age, he thought. He was quite a bit older now than he was the last time he had run into a mage and vampiric abilities always tended to increase in subtle ways over the passing of time. 

The sound of the mage clearing her throat brought him out of his musings. Once he took in her new attire, he had to admit that if he were of the more warm-blooded, heartbeat-having-variety of person, he’d probably be in the process of losing the function of his higher thinking capability at that moment. She had magicked her clothes to a more feminine version of his own – a silk screen tee shirt with some kind of album cover on it, close fitting dark denim jeans, with leather riding boots and a jacket of the same material. It was a common outfit, especially amongst the people that frequented the kind of places they were heading to, but something about this particular outfit on this specific woman was both eye-catching and understatedly attractive.

She cleared her throat for a second time, causing Godric to mentally chastise himself. He couldn’t even remember the last time he thought of a woman and attractiveness together in the same sentence, let alone become so preoccupied with that thought that it was noticeable. If he still possessed the ability to blush, he was sure his ears would be quite red right about now. Thank the gods Eric wasn’t here to compound the embarrassment.

Ignoring his lapse in attention entirely, Godric stepped around the desk and headed for the door of his office. Once he was at the threshold of the hallway, he stopped and turned his head over his shoulder to ask his companion for the night, “Please follow me to the garage. I assume you don’t mind taking a car to this bar?”

She quickly matched his pace as they walked through his home, answering him, “Not at all. I’m actually quite interested to see what kind of cars you have.”

He quirked a brow at her as he replied, “That’s good. I’m not a fan of the nauseous feeling that accompanies magical forms of travel. I am curious as to your interest in my cars, as I was under the impression that most magicals disdained technology in general.”

She laughed. The low, full-bellied kind of laugh that seemed incongruous when compared to the woman making the sound. Once she got herself back under control, she answered, “You would be quite correct – especially so when considering the British magicals. Up until a few years ago, the curriculum still included horse-drawn carriages as the primary mode of transportation for non-magicals.”

He actually scoffed in incredulousness, saying, “Here I thought vampires were the only ones that had trouble keeping up with technological innovations.”

The mage just gave him a small, crooked smile before answering his original question, “As for being interested in your cars, well, I find that you can tell a lot about a person from the kind of cars they like and drive. My friends also tell me I have a bit of an obsession with anything that goes over 100 kilometers an hour,” she finished with a bit of a wry grin.

“That must have gotten you a few sideways looks, being part of a community that generally enjoys breaking the laws of physics while materializing from place to place when they travel in order to avoid the actual traveling part,” he said thoughtfully.

“Outside of my fellow Quidditch-obsessed fanatics, yes it does. My father certainly didn’t help anything by gifting me a broom that could nearly break the sound barrier when I was thirteen, nor when he gave me a flying motorcycle at sixteen,” she told him. 

When she mentioned her father, her mood seemed to darken slightly, the light-hearted tone of their conversation now absent from her voice. He wondered what had caused the change as he opened the door leading to the garage. The lights were motion-activated, and his companion gave a low whistle as the bright flood lights illuminated his rather expensive car collection. Ms. Potter-Black didn’t have a monopoly on liking fast things, after all.

He wondered what she would say if he told her he only kept a portion of his cars at his Dallas house, the “tamer” ones in particular.

“I really shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “I’ve noticed that vampires tend to like the best of everything, cars included,” the mage added absently while she catalogued the three admittedly luxurious cars in front of her.

“Yes, well, when you live as long as we do, money tends to not be something to worry about,” he answered before adding slyly, “not to mention that vampires also have a thing for speed.”

She looked at him, amused, and her lip quirked up on the side in a small, crooked smirk as she replied, “I can see that. So which car will we be taking tonight, Sheriff?”

Godric hummed as he considered the question. Usually, he didn’t put this much thought into something as mundane as which car he would be taking out on whatever errand that was causing him to leave his nest, but he thought tonight’s mission required a little more thought, for his companion’s love of cars at least.

“The R8, if you have no objections?” he asked, just a little hint of deviousness in his voice as he turned to look at her, catching the movement of her eyes to the sleek black Audi that was, admittedly, a favorite of his.

She grinned a little madly, with appled cheeks and lots of bright, white teeth as she answered, “No objections from me, Sheriff.”

“Godric,” he said suddenly and without thought, since was too busy trying to not to shiver from the mad grin that was aimed his way, either from unease or… something else he was hesitant to name, even in his own mind. He cleared his throat, unnecessarily, trying to regain some kind of coherence as she stared at him inquisitively with too-green eyes, “Call me Godric, it’s a little less attention grabbing than Sheriff, and we are supposed to be trying to stay ‘under the radar’ as the saying goes, yes?”

The mage gave him a quicksilver grin and replied, “Sure, staying ‘under the radar’ is the goal, but I’m not all together very optimistic about us making it through the night undiscovered,” she said, a little chagrined, “my luck is a little wonky, truth be told – a family trait I’ve heard.”

Godric thought over what she had just said as he unlocked the car, both making their way to their respective sides and taking a seat on the rich leather which made up the car’s seats. He thought back to the only other mage he met, and the seemingly random things that would happen to who should have had a relatively quiet life living as a practical recluse, even in that day and age. It was not your everyday person, magical or not, that managed to run into old, powerful, and dubiously moral vampires (or more accurately, have them run into you, literally), was it?

“Well, the last mage I came across also had a case of rather… odd luck as well,” he replied before turning to look at her, adding, “I’m an extremely old, nearly indestructible, incredibly strong undead being. Regardless of your luck, I think everything will turn out just fine.”

His accomplice for the night hummed vaguely before she replied, barely audible, “Yes, but these people have already surpassed the expectations placed on them by subduing some of the most deadly and efficient witches and wizards on either side of the Atlantic.” Turning to look out of the window to her right, her voice grew solemn as she added, “This isn’t just a normal group of hedge-witches, necromancers or not. Something else is in play here and it’s maddening not knowing what.”

_Well_ , Godric thought, _she wasn’t exactly wrong_. However, he knew that they wouldn’t be able to divine the reasoning or motivations of this group until they had more information, he decided to, a little abruptly, change the trajectory of their conversation.

“You never answered my question,” Godric said, apropos of nothing.

Train of thought broken, she turned away from the scenes of the Dallas night life that were visible through the Audi’s window and was slightly bewildered when she asked, “What question?”

“What name do you go by these days?” he asked. Deciding to be a little facetious, he gave her a small smirk while adding, “You do have so many to choose from, after all.”

She looked amused at his attempt at humor, replying “Potter-Black, Morgan Potter-Black,” in a voice with a certain gravitas to it. “But you can call me Morgan,” she quickly added.

_Where had he heard something like that before_? It took him a second, which was actually a bit for him before he remembered those British spy movies that came out a few decades ago that had the agent who said his name similarly. He felt something akin to warmth when she absently returned the favor of allowing him to use her first name, but he pushed it away for now, unsure of the motivation for it while also realizing he should probably say something _(pauses in conversation were somewhat taboo or awkward for humans, he belatedly remembered_ ).

Ignoring his thoughts and the pause in conversation, he quirked his eyebrow at her and prodded further, “Forgive my intrusion, but I do wonder why you’re not using your husbands last name?” At the sudden tightening of her expression, minuscule and easily missed to a human, but not a vampire, he elaborated, “Ah, apologies for being nosey, it’s just that I come from a time before surnames came to be used. The complexity of the issues surrounding surnames can still sometimes elude me.”

He paused for half a second, not to make sure he wasn’t prodding open wounds like a normal person ( _human_ ) would have, but to get his own thoughts in order, weighing the outcome of what he was about to ask ( _what information he could glean from this odd mage that had thrown his usual routine out of the metaphorical window for the night_ ), before he finally asked, “I was just wondering why, if you’re trying to stay under the radar at the moment, don’t you use your husband’s last name? It would be a bit of a buffer from anyone connecting you to, well, _you_.”

She was quiet for a moment, softly sighing before replying, “I use James for just about all of my business not directly related to my British estates, so that takes care of being recognized. I don’t even bloody try in Britain – everyone knows my business anyway. It’s better to give them bits and pieces. You can control what they find out about you that way, write your own narrative, if you will. Using Ravenclaw as a last name would be a good alternative, at least in the non-magical world, but I’ve recently separated from my husband.”

_Well_ , he thought, _I can check off being unforgivably rude off my list tonight_. After a second of heavy silence, he said “I apologize for prying, that was rather insensitive of me.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye and with a small smile, replied, “Don’t worry about it – truly.” After a small pause, she continued, “It was a contracted marriage and we parted ways quite amicably.” Under her breath, she muttered, “Honestly, he wouldn’t even mind if I used Ravenclaw, especially considering that I’m still technically considered the Lady of that House even after we dissolved our marriage bond.”

He quirked an eyebrow at that little tidbit of information, “Really? How odd – I would think that divorcing, or annulling, or whatever the terminology is for separation of married magicals would preclude you from claiming any of your former spouses’ estates.”

_Nosey, incredibly rude, and entirely too interested in his companion’s personal life_ , he disparagingly thought to himself, helpless to stop further digging his own metaphorical grave.

“Most of the time, it does,” she answered. “But there were… special circumstances… so to speak.”

“I apologize if I’m prying, yet again, where I shouldn’t be, but _how_ is that even possible?” He asked, refusing to acknowledge the slight whining tone his voice had taken. He was millennia old; he _did not_ whine.

She grinned impishly at him before responding in a sing-song voice, “Magic!”

**Morgan POV**

She laughed a bit maniacally at the long-suffering expression on the vampire Sherriff’s face and actually snorted when she thought about how easily she was able to rile up said ancient vampire. That’s just par for the course for the Potter-Black genes, it seemed like.

“Now,” she said, “I do have some questions for you, dear Sheriff. That is if your finished asking questions about my last name?” she asked not an unnoticeable amount of humor in her voice.

Morgan thought if vampires could blush, she would be looking at a tomato faced Sheriff of Area Nine right now. He was the picture of caught out and befuddled, something that she had had the joy of inflicting on a number of people, dead and undead alike.

Clearing his throat unnecessarily, Godric answered after taking a second to seemingly recompose himself, “Well, turnabout is fair, after all. Ask away and I shall answer if I can.”

She gave him another one of her Cheshire grins and noted that he almost seemed to gulp in response. Internally cackling at the Pavlovian reaction her expression seemed to cause, she attempted to keep the Black madness out of her voice when she was finally able to ask, “Earlier you said you’ve met a mage before. Can you tell me about them?”

Morgan hoped that she was able to keep the desperation out of her voice, because she was desperate. Things like that tended to be weaknesses in her line of work.

Godric looked at her out of the corner of his eye, a surprised expression on his pale face. He was quite as he turned left onto a busy street and seemed to contemplate his words as he carefully answered, “I can. However, I feel as if you will inevitably be disappointed with the lack of actual information I have about him.” Drawing his eyebrows together, he continued “Even though we traveled together for some time, at least two years, he was the most reclusive and closed off person I have ever met. He could talk for hours and say nothing at all about his personal life or opinions,” he finished, somewhat morosely.

Not even a little bit deterred in her mission, Morgan trudged on, replying “Well you have two years more experience and, thus, information about mages than I have. I was able to find depressingly little information about mages in general and I have a considerable amount of ancient and illegal literature from which to read from.” She hummed consideringly before asking, “Can you at least tell me what his name was, or what he told you to call him?”

Her companion for the night gave a small smile and said, “Well, the little amount of information you were able to glean about mages makes sense when you consider their personalities and the seemingly inherent proclivity for them to be reclusive,” he shot a sideways glance to her when he spoke the second half of sentence. His next sentence, however, nearly caused the beautiful R8 they were in to combust via the shockwave of magic that came from Morgan.

“The mage I traveled with was named Ignotus Peverell,” Godric said quietly.

As Morgan’s magic swiftly filled the inside of the car, Godric looked at her in alarm, requesting “Morgan, if you don’t get a handle on that decidedly agitated magic I can feel ballooning from you, we might be causing just that scene you were trying to avoid.”

Taking a (much needed) deep breath, Morgan began the arduous task of reeling her magic under some semblance of control while trying not to _absolutely freak the bloody fuck out_. Did this vampire sitting right next to her really just say that not only did he know a mage, but that that mage was _Ignotus fucking Peverell_ , founder of the infamous House of Peverell, famed for their enchanting prowess and (more infamously) known for their association with the necromantic relics in the children’s take _The Beetle and the Bard_?

James Potter had to be rolling around laughing his arse off in the afterlife after seeing his family’s bipolar luck wreak havoc on his daughter, yet again. Bloody wanker.

She took another deep breath and really gave what Godric just said some serious thought. She knew she was descended from Ignotus’ line as his last descendant had married into the Potter line. She also knew that magical traits such as morphing skills, parseltongue, clairvoyance, and _apparently being a god damned mage_ ran through magical family lines. She suddenly had an epiphany that maybe the Potter luck was another inheritance from the Peverell family, alongside her father’s cloak.

She wondered, fleetingly, about the _wand_ and the _ring_ and the _cloak_ that had all separately made their way into her possession over a decade ago and determinedly decided not to think about anything Hallow related. One genealogical bombshell at a time was her absolute limit. She would need vodka, the real Russian kind, for any other revelations that lay down that road.

Morgan was finally able to utter a very articulate “Fuck” to the concerned vampire sitting a foot to her left.

He gave a short, startled laugh and turned to look at her properly before saying “Well, that was a bit more of a reaction than I anticipated over a name of all things. I’m guessing it means something to you?”

Her eyes were likely the size of tea saucers as she turned her whole body toward the Sheriff and replied, “Oh, not much. Just didn’t expect to hear my many times great granddad was a mage who apparently frolicked in the English countryside with one of the world’s most famous vampires who, also, just apparently happens to be accompanying me for the night. No big deal,” she finished, just a tad hysterically.

_Merlin_ , she thought, _all those years of Occlumency just_ swoosh _, right out the window_. Severus would be so pleased.

Now it was Godric’s turn to lose his composure, even though it was decidedly less of a show of emotion than Morgan’s, with only his jaw dropping a millimeter or two. For a vampire, though, that was as good as gaping. He said, “I was not expecting that,” in a deadpan sort of voice that caused Morgan to smother a snort.

Just as he opened his mouth to no doubt enquire more about her connection to the Peverells, he made a sharp turn into a crowded parking lot and swiftly swung the car into an open spot.

“Looks like we’re here,” she said.

“Yes,” he said quietly before turning to face her. “I know that we both have more we’d like to talk about regarding mages and Peverells, but we should probably go ahead and head inside quickly.”

She must have looked conflicted, for he added “When we get done here, we can continue our earlier conversation of course.”

Nodding decisively, she gave the vampire a small quirk of her lips before quickly opening her door and stepping out of the car. The frigid November air in north Texas helped to clear her head of any residual lingering thoughts so she made her way toward the Sheriff who was waiting for her a few steps away from the car, closer to the bar that was the object of their mission for the night.

“So,” she said, “we’ll just be acting like a typic Dallas couple, out to catch some music and drink some alcohol for the night while keeping an eye out for any decidedly witchy happenings?”

“Simple, but it sounds like a solid framework from which to improvise to me,” the Sheriff said.

One of Morgan’s eyebrow’s lifted and she could hear the self-flagellation in her own voice as she replied, “There’s no use making a plan any more complicated than that one with my luck. Not to mention, the miniscule plan that we do have is 100% going to be mucked up _somehow_ , tonight.”

Godric gave a noncommittal hum as he held the door open for her and they walked over to the crowded bar. The music was decidedly rock, with a loud, pounding bass and an angry voice sing-shouting the rhyming lyrics being blasted over the loudspeakers, which only caused the crowd to be louder than usual in order to hear themselves talking. In short, she figured this probably wasn’t the most comfortable place for a vampire to be, with the sensitive hearing and all.

The Sheriff ordered a True Blood before turning to ask her what she wanted to drink. After getting his change back from the bar tender and handing her the requested whiskey neat, they made their way over to one of the empty tables that seemed to be in increasingly short supply as the bar quickly filled up with the normal Friday night crowd.

After sipping their respective drinks in companionable silence for a few moments, she quietly asked, “Do you see any of the people that were included in that file you showed me?”

“No,” Godric replied. “I don’t see any of them and nothing too out of place either.”

“Well,” she said, “we’ve only been here for about ten minutes and the night is young yet.”

Morgan was suddenly hit by another fit of deviousness, causing her to turn to her new vampire friend and say, “Let’s dance, Sheriff!”

At the alarmed look that quickly flew over his face, she threw her head back and cackled eerily like her cousin Bellatrix. Seeing that said cackling didn’t do anything to ease the look of alarm on her companion’s face, she quickly got herself under control before prodding him further, saying “We can’t just sit here all night. We’ll draw attention to ourselves. Not to mention, couples are supposed to dance at fine drinking establishments such as this aren’t they?”

“I guess you’re not exactly wrong,” Godric replied with a long-suffering sigh of someone who was intimately acquainted with mischief makers. He probably knew that denying them would only lead to an escalation of increasingly embarrassing situations. He hopped off his stook and stuck out his elbow for Morgan to place her hand through, ever the gentleman.

As they made their way to the center of the bar where people had started to congregate and dance, Morgan thought that Godric was shaping up to be a very entertaining person to be around. She liked him, she thought smugly. He knew how to play along, a vastly underrated quality among anyone over 20 years old which was the age people started to become beaten down by life, she imagined sadly.

After coming to a good enough spot, Morgan stopped and turned, lifting her arms, and lacing her hands behind Godric’s neck as he simultaneously took his cues from her and lightly rested his own hands on her hips, stepping closer into Morgan’s personal space.

“It’s been decades since I’ve danced,” the vampire remarked off-handedly.

“Well,” Morgan said, “you’re going to be dancing quite a bit tonight, my undead friend.”

Godric’s lip quirked in a facsimile of a smile. Morgan watched him look around, scanning the room a few times before asking, “Will you finally tell me what exactly brought you all the way to Texas to find some hedge-witches?”

Seeing her confused expression, he clarified “I know that you’re here under your authority as a member of the British Unspeakables. But why did they send the, most arguably, famous British supernatural in the world in order to retrieve two lost teams?”

She wished Godric wasn’t so observant. But, she thought, it was a fair question and one that she didn’t really want to answer, but she would.

“I have a few unique skills that make infiltration and extraction much easier for me compared to a team of people,” she said quietly before adding, “Not to mention, I have something of a personal stake in this situation.” At Godric’s imploring expression, she finally relented, saying “My father was part one of the British operatives that are currently missing.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Godric said solemnly. He looked at her intensely before asking, “Do you have any idea what they were doing? I doubt that an American group of hedge-witches necessitated British Unspeakables traveling this far for a simple investigation or arrest.”

“You would be correct. However, they weren’t the first group sent to deal with the hedge-witches,” Morgan said cryptically. “The Americans sent their own team first, but after weeks of radio silence, they requested help from our London office. As I mentioned, the British team seemed to disappear shortly after they arrived in this area. I’m the last resort,” she finished sardonically.

Godric gave her an inscrutable look before something out of the corner of his eye seemed to catch his attention. He looked over her left shoulder before abruptly pulling her closer, smoothly melding their bodies together even in his haste.

The heavy, urgent lyrics of whatever song the bar was playing pounded through the stereo system, only aided by the heavy bass as Godric whispered, voice urgent and low in her ear, “I see two of them, two women, one in her thirties with blonde hair and a green shirt, the other in her twenties with black hair and a purple dress.”

Morgan was trying to think past the 180 pounds of gorgeous vampire that was suddenly plastered alongside the front of her like a particularly handsome Devil’s Snare. She was having debatable success.

Finally, she got herself under control and replied, “Turn us around, Sheriff, so I can get a good look at them.”

Slowly, in sync with the [pounding drums](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCm9p9cXF34) drowning out the crowd around them, Godric expertly moved them to where she had a clear view of the two people he had spotted. She immediately focused on the older blonde, flicking her wrist to aid in sending out a strong, but discreet compulsion belief that she suddenly had an urgent need to use restroom. As she watched the compulsion take effect via the sudden clouding of the woman’s eyes, she turned her focus back to the vampire in front of her.

“I’ve sent the blonde to the bathroom, will you be fine with trying to weasel information out of her companion while I take a trip into her friend’s mind to see what fun secrets she may be hiding?” she asked.

Seeing the humor in his eyes, the Sheriff answered, “I’ll be fine. Be careful, though.”

Giving him a small, but genuine, smile, she brought her hand to his cheek to convey her appreciation but froze upon contact.

She couldn’t move. She was suddenly having to use every ounce of her spotty control to keep her magic from knocking over everyone in this bar.

Her magic, her magic that had an unhealthy fascination with two vampire Sheriffs, was currently in the process of screwing Morgan over as it practically invaded the startled vampire in front of her.

_Oh gods_ , she thought, _why did I have to be right about the mother fucking Potter luck_?

She had no idea what was happening, why her magic decided to be a pain in the arse, yet again, and why, this time, it had decided to practically burrow into the ancient vampire in front of her like some kind of metaphysical, unwanted cat seeking affection. She was utterly embarrassed and speechless, but she couldn’t really devote enough brain power to contemplate the ramifications of her magic’s actions as she was made abruptly aware of this black void, devoid of light or life within Godric that was so cold that it caused her magic to shiver before trying to instinctively fix the soul leech ( _because that’s what it was, the only thing it could be, feeling disturbingly like Quirrell’s aura so many years ago while he was playing host for Tom’s least favorite incarnation of himself, that of a soul leeching parasite_ ).

Her magic shudders in both devastation and joy at the level of depth the split-second connection offers, caught between revulsion at the open, gaping wound and elation over the _rightness_ of Godric’s aura cocooned in her wondering magic.

Morgan did something quite uncharacteristic of her. Once she got her magic coiled safely back under her skin, she rapidly fled. She only offered Godric a searching look, unable (or unwilling) to explain what had just happened.

She had a mind to plunder after all. She had a limited window of opportunity in which to go traipsing through the hedge witch’s mind without causing suspicion. Morgan wanted her father back.

And she would like the universe to please stop throwing her for a loop every other day, please and thank you kindly.

**Godric POV**

Shocked, he could only look on in silence at her as she turned around and strutted towards where the bathrooms were located. He started furiously thinking over everything piece of information that he had learned about Morgan so far.

He thought over all their interactions this night and was quite surprised at the conclusions he drew. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so animated, so in-the-moment, not just a bystander to life, watching it pass by with the ever-present sense of detachment that had been his only companion these last decades. It took the shocking feeling of being submerged in unadulterated magic, a mage’s _being_ , to realize how out of character he was behaving tonight.

He also realized that for all it seemed like they had been equally trading small details of their lives, she had only shared superficial things with one or two seemingly personal aspects that only seemed personal at the time, but in hindsight, were things that he would’ve easily been able to find out if he decided to do his homework on the mage. It was an art, talking without giving anything away that could be used against you in the future, and she was good at it. _But why would she need to be?_ he thought. He could come up with a hundred different explanations, each more unlikely than the one before it.

He was lost in thought as he only halfheartedly paid attention to what was going on around him. He kept half of his attention on the other woman that was part of the hedge witch coven while he made his way back to the bar to order another True Blood and mull over what, exactly, had just happened. Morgan had seemed just as shocked as him, so this wasn’t something that was premeditated. The mage actually seemed quite a bit more shocked than he felt, he thought, in hindsight.

The booming lyrics accompanying the heavy guitar and bass suddenly seemed to be meant for just his ears, shockingly specific to Godric and his current situation as they were.

_Pretending that we live doesn’t make us alive._

**Author’s note, part two** : Props to anyone who caught that Eric and Godric smelled similar, but different, things about Morgan’s magic. Also, did any German speakers catch the reference to the title in the song?


End file.
